V 1 


Civ*] 

|;<t  V,S.tZ> 

(SST  gaOK 

27$ - 

Gc$flC<*  0J 


ART 


WEI  FIGURE,  FIFTH  CENTURY 

In  M.  Vignier  s Collection 


ART 


BY  CLIVE  BELL 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Printed  m Great  Britain 


All  rights  reserved 


I GETTY  C©H2R 
USA vef 


PREFACE 


In  this  little  book  I have  tried  to  develop 
a complete  theory  of  visual  art.  I have  put 
forward  an  hypothesis  by  reference  to  which 
the  respectability,  though  not  the  validity, 
of  all  aesthetic  judgments  can  be  tested, 
in  the  light  of  which  the  history  of  art  from 
palaeolithic  days  to  the  present  becomes 
intelligible,  by  adopting  which  we  give  intel- 
lectual backing  to  an  almost  universal  and 
immemorial  conviction.  Everyone  in  his 
heart  believes  that  there  is  a real  distinction 
between  works  of  art  and  all  other  objects  ; 
this  belief  my  hypothesis  justifies.  We  all 
feel  that  art  is  immensely  important ; my 
hypothesis  affords  reason  for  thinking  it  so. 
In  fact,  the  great  merit  of  this  hypothesis 
of  mine  is  that  it  seems  to  explain  what 
we  know  to  be  true.  Anyone  who  is 
curious  to  discover  why  we  call  a Persian 
carpet  or  a fresco  by  Piero  della  Francesca 
a work  of  art,  and  a portrait-bust  of  Hadrian 


ART 


or  a popular  problem-picture  rubbish,  will 
here  find  satisfaction.  He  will  find,  too, 
that  to  the  familiar  counters  of  criticism — 
e.g.  “ good  drawing,”  “ magnificent  design,” 
“ mechanical,”  “ unfelt,”  “ ill-organised,” 
“ sensitive,”  — is  given,  what  such  terms 
sometimes  lack,  a definite  meaning.  In  a 
word,  my  hypothesis  works ; that  is  un- 
usual : to  some  it  has  seemed  not  only 
workable  but  true  ; that  is  miraculous  almost. 

In  fifty  or  sixty  thousand  words,  though 
one  may  develop  a theory  adequately,  one 
cannot  pretend  to  develop  it  exhaustively. 
My  book  is  a simplification.  I have  tried 
to  make  a generalisation  about  the  nature  of 
art  that  shall  be  at  once  true,  coherent,  and 
comprehensible.  I have  sought  a theory 

which  should  explain  the  whole  of  my 
aesthetic  experience  and  suggest  a solution 
of  every  problem,  but  I have  not  attempted 
to  answer  in  detail  all  the  questions  that 
proposed  themselves,  or  to  follow  any  one 
of  them  along  its  slenderest  ramifications. 
The  science  of  aesthetics  is  a complex 
business  and  so  is  the  history  of  art ; my 
hope  has  been  to  write  about  them  some- 
thing simple  and  true.  For  instance,  though 
I have  indicated  very  clearly,  and  even  re- 
petitiously,  what  I take  to  be  essential  in 

vi 


PREFACE 


a work  of  art,  I have  not  discussed  as  fully 
as  I might  have  done  the  relation  of  the 
essential  to  the  unessential.  There  is  a 
great  deal  more  to  be  said  about  the  mind 
of  the  artist  and  the  nature  of  the  artistic 
problem.  It  remains  for  someone  who  is 
an  artist,  a psychologist,  and  an  expert  in 
human  limitations  to  tell  us  how  far  the 
unessential  is  a necessary  means  to  the 
essential — to  tell  us  whether  it  is  easy  or 
difficult  or  impossible  for  the  artist  to 
destroy  every  rung  in  the  ladder  by  which 
he  has  climbed  to  the  stars. 

My  first  chapter  epitomises  discussions 
and  conversations  and  long  strands  of  cloudy 
speculation  which,  condensed  to  solid  argu- 
ment, would  still  fill  two  or  three  stout 
volumes : some  day,  perhaps,  I shall  write 
one  of  them  if  my  critics  are  rash  enough 
to  provoke  me.  As  for  my  third  chapter — 
a sketch  of  the  history  of  fourteen  hundred 
years — that  it  is  a simplification  goes  with- 
out saying.  Here  I have  used  a series  of 
historical  generalisations  to  illustrate  my 
theory ; and  here,  again,  I believe  in  my 
theory,  and  am  persuaded  that  anyone  who 
will  consider  the  history  of  art  in  its  light 
will  find  that  history  more  intelligible  than 
of  old.  At  the  same  time  I willingly  admit 


ART 


that  in  fact  the  contrasts  are  less  violent, 
the  hills  less  precipitous,  than  they  must 
be  made  to  appear  in  a chart  of  this  sort. 
Doubtless  it  would  be  well  if  this  chapter 
also  were  expanded  into  half  a dozen  read- 
able volumes,  but  that  it  cannot  be  until 
the  learned  authorities  have  learnt  to  write 
or  some  writer  has  learnt  to  be  patient. 

Those  conversations  and  discussions  that 
have  tempered  and  burnished  the  theories 
advanced  in  my  first  chapter  have  been 
carried  on  for  the  most  part  with  Mr.  Roger 
Fry,  to  whom,  therefore,  I owe  a debt  that 
defies  exact  computation.  In  the  first  place, 
I can  thank  him,  as  joint-editor  of  The  Bur- 
lington Magazine , for  permission  to  reprint 
some  part  of  an  essay  contributed  by  me  to 
that  periodical.  That  obligation  discharged, 
I come  to  a more  complicated  reckoning. 
The  first  time  I met  Mr.  Fry,  in  a rail- 
way carriage  plying  between  Cambridge  and 
London,  we  fell  into  talk  about  contemporary 
art  and  its  relation  to  all  other  art ; it  seems 
to  me  sometimes  that  we  have  been  talking 
about  the  same  thing  ever  since,  but  my 
friends  assure  me  that  it  is  not  quite  so  bad 
as  that.  Mr.  Fry,  I remember,  had  recently 
become  familiar  with  the  modern  French 
masters — C6zanne>  Gauguin,  Matisse  : I en- 
viii 


PREFACE 


joyed  the  advantage  of  a longer  acquaint- 
ance. Already,  however,  Mr.  Fry  had  pub- 
lished his  Essay  in  ^Aesthetics , which,  to  my 
thinking,  was  the  most  helpful  contribution 
to  the  science  that  had  been  made  since 
the  days  of  Kant.  We  talked  a good  deal 
about  that  essay,  and  then  we  discussed  the 
possibility  of  a “ Post-Impressionist  ” Exhibi- 
tion at  the  Grafton  Galleries.  We  did  not 
call  it  “Post-Impressionist”;  the  word  was 
invented  later  by  Mr.  Fry,  which  makes  me 
think  it  a little  hard  that  the  more  advanced 
critics  should  so  often  upbraid  him  for  not 
knowing  what  “ Post-Impressionism  ” means. 

For  some  years  Mr.  Fry  and  I have  been 
arguing,  more  or  less  amicably,  about  the 
principles  of  aesthetics.  We  still  disagree 
profoundly.  I like  to  think  that  I have  not 
moved  an  inch  from  my  original  position, 
but  I must  confess  that  the  cautious  doubts 
and  reservations  that  have  insinuated  them- 
selves into  this  Preface  are  all  indirect  conse- 
quences of  my  friend’s  criticism.  And  it  is 
not  only  of  general  ideas  and  fundamental 
things  that  we  have  talked ; Mr.  Fry  and  I 
have  wrangled  for  hours  about  particular 
works  of  art.  In  such  cases  the  extent  to 
which  one  may  have  affected  the  judgment 
of  the  other  cannot  possibly  be  appraised, 

ix 


ART 


nor  need  it  be  : neither  of  us,  I think,  covets 
the  doubtful  honours  of  proselytism.  Surely 
whoever  appreciates  a fine  work  of  art  may 
be  allowed  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  suppos- 
ing that  he  has  made  a discovery?  Never- 
theless, since  all  artistic  theories  are  based  on 
aesthetic  judgments,  it  is  clear  that  should 
one  affect  the  judgments  of  another,  he 
may  affect,  indirectly,  some  of  his  theories ; 
and  it  is  certain  that  some  of  my  historical 
generalisations  have  been  modified,  and  even 
demolished,  by  Mr.  Fry.  His  task  was  not 
arduous : he  had  merely  to  confront  me  with 
some  work  over  which  he  was  sure  that  I 
should  go  into  ecstasies,  and  then  to  prove  by 
the  most  odious  and  irrefragable  evidence 
that  it  belonged  to  a period  which  I had 
concluded,  on  the  highest  a priori  grounds, 
to  be  utterly  barren.  I can  only  hope 
that  Mr.  Fry’s  scholarship  has  been  as  profit- 
able to  me  as  it  has  been  painful  : I have 
travelled  with  him  through  France,  Italy, 
and  the  near  East,  suffering  acutely,  not 
always,  I am  glad  to  remember,  in  silence ; 
for  the  man  who  stabs  a generalisation  with 
a fact  forfeits  all  claim  on  good-fellowship 
and  the  usages  of  polite  society. 

I have  to  thank  my  friend  Mr.  Vernon 
Rendall  for  permission  to  make  what  use  I 

x 


PREFACE 


chose  of  the  articles  I have  contributed  from 
time  to  time  to  The  Athenaeum  : if  I have 
made  any  use  of  what  belongs  by  law  to 
the  proprietors  of  other  papers  I herewith 
offer  the  customary  dues.  My  readers  will 
be  as  grateful  as  I to  M.  Vignier,  M.  Druet, 
and  Mr.  Kevorkian,  of  the  Persian  Art 
Gallery,  since  it  is  they  who  have  made  it 
certain  that  the  purchaser  will  get  something 
he  likes  for  his  money.  To  Mr.  Eric 
Maclagan  of  South  Kensington,  and  Mr. 
Joyce  of  the  British  Museum,  I owe  a more 
private  and  particular  debt.  My  wife  has 
been  good  enough  to  read  both  the  MS.  and 
proof  of  this  book ; she  has  corrected  some 
errors,  and  called  attention  to  the  more  glar- 
ing offences  against  Christian  charity.  You 
must  not  attempt,  therefore,  to  excuse  the 
author  on  the  ground  of  inadvertence  or 
haste. 

CLIVE  BELL. 

November  19134 


X! 


CONTENTS 


I.  WHAT  IS  ART? 

I The  Aesthetic  Hypothesis  page  3 

II.  Aesthetics  and  Post-Impressionism  38 

III.  The  Metaphysical  Hypothesis  49 

II.  ART  AND  LIFE 

I.  Art  and  Religion  75 

II.  Art  and  History  95 

III.  Art  and  Ethics  106 

III.  THE  CHRISTIAN  SLOPE 

I.  The  Rise  of  Christian  Art  121 

II.  Greatness  and  Decline  138 

III.  The  Classical  Renaissance  and  its 

Diseases  156 

IV.  Alid  ex  Alio  181 

xiii 


ART 


IV.  THE  MOVEMENT 

I.  The  Debt  to  Cezanne  page  199 

II.  Simplification  and  Design  215 

III.  The  Pathetic  Fallacy  239 

V.  THE  FUTURE 

I.  Society  and  Art  251 

II.  Art  and  Society  *76 


XIV 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


I.  Wei  Figure 

II.  Persian  Dish 

III.  Peruvian  Pot 

IV.  Byzantine  Mosaic 

V.  CtZANNK 

VI.  Picasso 


Frontispiece 
Facing  page  3 

75 

121 

*99 

*5i 


xv 


I 

WHAT  IS  ART? 

I.  The  Aesthetic  Hypothesis 

II.  Aesthetics  and  Post-Impressionism 

III.  The  Metaphysical  Hypothesis 


A 


* 


PERSIAN  DISH,  ELEVENTH  CENTURY  (?) 
By  permission  of  Mr.  Kevorkian 
of  the  Persian  Art  Gallery 


I 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 

It  is  improbable  that  more  nonsense  has  been 
written  about  aesthetics  than  about  anything 
else  : the  literature  of  the  subject  is  not  large 
enough  for  that.  It  is  certain,  however, 
that  about  no  subject  with  which  I am 
acquainted  has  so  little  been  said  that  is  at 
all  to  the  purpose.  The  explanation  is  dis- 
coverable. He  who  would  elaborate  a plau- 
sible theory  of  aesthetics  must  possess  two 
qualities — artistic  sensibility  and  a turn  for 
clear  thinking.  Without  sensibility  a man 
can  have  no  aesthetic  experience,  and,  obvi- 
ously, theories  not  based  on  broad  and  deep 
aesthetic  experience  are  worthless.  Only 
those  for  whom  art  is  a constant  source  of 
passionate  emotion  can  possess  the  data  from 
which  profitable  theories  may  be  deduced  ; 
but  to  deduce  profitable  theories  even  from 
accurate  data  involves  a certain  amount  of 
brain-work,  and,  unfortunately,  robust  in- 

3 


ART 


tellects  and  delicate  sensibilities  are  not 
inseparable.  As  often  as  not,  the  hardest 
thinkers  have  had  no  aesthetic  experience 
whatever.  I have  a friend  blessed  with  an 
intellect  as  keen  as  a drill,  who,  though  he 
takes  an  interest  in  aesthetics,  has  never 
during  a life  of  almost  forty  years  been 
guilty  of  an  aesthetic  emotion.  So,  having  no 
faculty  for  distinguishing  a work  of  art  from 
a handsaw,  he  is  apt  to  rear  up  a pyramid 
of  irrefragable  argument  on  the  hypothesis 
that  a handsaw  is  a work  of  art.  This 
defect  robs  his  perspicuous  and  subtle 
reasoning  of  much  of  its  value ; for  it  has 
ever  been  a maxim  that  faultless  logic  can 
win  but  little  credit  for  conclusions  that  are 
based  on  premises  notoriously  false.  Every 
cloud,  however,  has  its  silver  lining,  and  this 
insensibility,  though  unlucky  in  that  it 
makes  my  friend  incapable  of  choosing  a 
sound  basis  for  his  argument,  mercifully 
blinds  him  to  the  absurdity  of  his  con- 
clusions while  leaving  him  in  full  enjoyment 
of  his  masterly  dialectic.  People  who  set 
out  from  the  hypothesis  that  Sir  Edwin 
Landseer  was  the  finest  painter  that  ever 
lived  will  feel  no  uneasiness  about  an 
aesthetic  which  proves  that  Giotto  was  the 
worst.  So,  my  friend,  when  he  arrives  very 

4 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 


logically  at  the  conclusion  that  a work  of 
art  should  be  small  or  round  or  smooth,  or 
that  to  appreciate  fully  a picture  you  should 
pace  smartly  before  it  or  set  it  spinning  like 
a top,  cannot  guess  why  I ask  him  whether 
he  has  lately  been  to  Cambridge,  a place  he 
sometimes  visits. 

On  the  other  hand,  people  who  respond 
immediately  and  surely  to  works  of  art, 
though,  in  my  judgment,  more  enviable  than 
men  of  massive  intellect  but  slight  sensi- 
bility, are  often  quite  as  incapable  of  talking 
sense  about  aesthetics.  Their  heads  are  not 
always  very  clear.  They  possess  the  data 
on  which  any  system  must  be  based  ; but, 
generally,  they  want  the  power  that  draws 
correct  inferences  from  true  data.  Having 
received  aesthetic  emotions  from  works  of 
art,  they  are  in  a position  to  seek  out  the 
quality  common  to  all  that  have  moved 
them,  but,  in  fact,  they  do  nothing  of  the 
sort.  I do  not  blame  them.  Why  should 
they  bother  to  examine  their  feelings  when 
for  them  to  feel  is  enough?  Why  should 
they  stop  to  think  when  they  are  not  very 
good  at  thinking  ? Why  should  they  hunt 
for  a common  quality  in  all  objects  that 
move  them  in  a particular  way  when  they 
can  linger  over  the  many  delicious  and 

5 


ART 


peculiar  charms  of  each  as  it  comes  ? So,  if 
they  write  criticism  and  call  it  aesthetics,  if 
they  imagine  that  they  are  talking  about 
Art  when  they  are  talking  about  particular 
works  of  art  or  even  about  the  technique 
of  painting,  if,  loving  particular  works  they 
find  tedious  the  consideration  of  art  in 
general,  perhaps  they  have  chosen  the  better 
part.  If  they  are  not  curious  about  the 
nature  of  their  emotion,  nor  about  the 
quality  common  to  all  objects  that  provoke 
it,  they  have  my  sympathy,  and,  as  what 
they  say  is  often  charming  and  suggestive, 
my  admiration  too.  Only  let  no  one  sup- 
pose that  what  they  write  and  talk  is 
aesthetics ; it  is  criticism,  or  just  “ shop.” 
The  starting-point  for  all  systems  of 
aesthetics  must  be  the  personal  experience 
of  a peculiar  emotion.  The  objects  that 
provoke  this  emotion  we  call  works  of  art. 
All  sensitive  people  agree  that  there  is  a 
peculiar  emotion  provoked  by  works  of  art. 
I do  not  mean,  of  course,  that  all  works 
provoke  the  same  emotion.  On  the  con- 
trary, every  work  produces  a different 
emotion.  But  all  these  emotions  are  recog- 
nisably  the  same  in  kind ; so  far,  at  any 
rate,  the  best  opinion  is  on  my  side.  That 
there  is  a particular  kind  of  emotion  pro- 

6 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 


voked  by  works  of  visual  art,  and  that  this 
emotion  is  provoked  by  every  kind  of  visual 
art,  by  pictures,  sculptures,  buildings,  pots, 
carvings,  textiles,  &c.,  &c.,  is  not  disputed, 
I think,  by  anyone  capable  of  feeling  it. 
This  emotion  is  called  the  aesthetic  emo- 
tion ; and  if  we  can  discover  some  quality 
common  and  peculiar  to  all  the  objects 
that  provoke  it,  we  shall  have  solved  what 
I take  to  be  the  central  problem  of  aesthetics. 
We  shall  have  discovered  the  essential  quality 
in  a work  of  art,  the  quality  that  distin- 
guishes works  of  art  from  all  other  classes 
of  objects. 

For  either  all  works  of  visual  art  have 
some  common  quality,  or  when  we  speak 
of  “ works  of  art  ” we  gibber.  Everyone 
speaks  of  “ art,”  making  a mental  classifica- 
tion by  which  he  distinguishes  the  class 
“ works  of  art  ” from  all  other  classes. 
What  is  the  justification  of  this  classifica- 
tion ? What  is  the  quality  common  and 
peculiar  to  all  members  of  this  class  ? 
Whatever  it  be,  no  doubt  it  is  often  found 
in  company  with  other  qualities;  but  they 
are  adventitious — it  is  essential.  There  must 
be  some  one  quality  without  which  a work 
of  art  cannot  exist ; possessing  which,  in 
the  least  degree,  no  work  is  altogether 

7 


ART 


worthless.  What  is  this  quality  ? What 
quality  is  shared  by  all  objects  that  provoke 
our  aesthetic  emotions  ? What  quality  is 
common  to  Sta.  Sophia  and  the  windows  at 
Chartres,  Mexican  sculpture,  a Persian  bowl, 
Chinese  carpets,  Giotto’s  frescoes  at  Padua, 
and  the  masterpieces  of  Poussin,  Piero  della 
Francesca,  and  Cezanne  ? Only  one  answer 
seems  possible — significant  form.  In  each, 
lines  and  colours  combined  in  a particular 
way,  certain  forms  and  relations  of  forms, 
stir  our  aesthetic  emotions.  These  relations 
and  combinations  of  lines  and  colours,  these 
aesthetically  moving  forms,  I call  “ Signifi 
cant  Form  ” ; and  “ Significant  Form  ” is 
the  one  quality  common  to  all  works  of 
visual  art. 

At  this  point  it  may  be  objected  that  I 
am  making  aesthetics  a purely  subjective 
business,  since  my  only  data  are  personal 
experiences  of  a particular  emotion.  It  will 
be  said  that  the  objects  that  provoke  this 
emotion  vary  with  each  individual,  and  that 
therefore  a system  of  aesthetics  can  have  no 
objective  validity.  It  must  be  replied  that 
any  system  of  aesthetics  which  pretends  to 
be  based  on  some  objective  truth  is  so 
palpably  ridiculous  as  not  to  be  worth  dis- 
cussing. We  have  no  other  means  of  recog- 

8 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 

nising  a work  of  art  than  our  feeling  for 
it.  The  objects  that  provoke  aesthetic  emo- 
tion vary  with  each  individual.  Aesthetic 
judgments  are,  as  the  saying  goes,  matters 
of  taste ; and  about  tastes,  as  everyone  is 
proud  to  admit,  there  is  no  disputing.  A 
good  critic  may  be  able  to  make  me  see  in 
a picture  that  had  left  me  cold  things  that 
I had  overlooked,  till  at  last,  receiving  the 
aesthetic  emotion,  I recognise  it  as  a work 
of  art.  To  be  continually  pointing  out 
those  parts,  the  sum,  or  rather  the  combina- 
tion, of  which  unite  to  produce  significant 
form,  is  the  function  of  criticism.  But  it 
is  useless  for  a critic  to  tell  me  that  some- 
thing is  a work  of  art ; he  must  make  me 
feel  it  for  myself.  This  he  can  do  only  by 
making  me  see  ; he  must  get  at  my  emotions 
through  my  eyes.  Unless  he  can  make  me 
see  something  that  moves  me,  he  cannot 
force  my  emotions.  I have  no  right  to 
consider  anything  a work  of  art  to  which 
I cannnot  react  emotionally ; and  I have 
no  right  to  look  for  the  essential  quality 
in  anything  that  I have  not  felt  to  be 
a work  of  art.  The  critic  can  affect 
my  aesthetic  theories  only  by  affecting 
my  aesthetic  experience.  All  systems  of 
aesthetics  must  be  based  on  personal  ex- 

9 


ART 

perience — that  is  to  say,  they  must  be 
subjective. 

Yet,  though  all  aesthetic  theories  must 
be  based  on  aesthetic  judgments,  and  ulti- 
mately all  aesthetic  judgments  must  be 
matters  of  personal  taste,  it  would  be  rash 
to  assert  that  no  theory  of  aesthetics  can 
have  general  validity.  For,  though  A,  B, 
C,  D are  the  works  that  move  me,  and 
A,  D,  E,  F the  works  that  move  you, 

it  may  well  be  that  x is  the  only  quality 
believed  by  either  of  us  to  be  common 
to  all  the  works  in  his  list.  We  may 

all  agree  about  aesthetics,  and  yet  differ 
about  particular  works  of  art.  We  may 
differ  as  to  the  presence  or  absence  of 
the  quality  x.  My  immediate  object  will 
be  to  show  that  significant  form  is  the 
only  quality  common  and  peculiar  to  all 
the  works  of  visual  art  that  move  me ; 

and  I will  ask  those  whose  aesthetic  ex- 
perience does  not  tally  with  mine  to  see 
whether  this  quality  is  not  also,  in  their 
judgment,  common  to  all  works  that  move 
them,  and  whether  they  can  discover  any 
other  quality  of  which  the  same  can  be 
said. 

Also  at  this  point  a query  arises,  irre- 

levant indeed,  but  hardly  to  be  suppressed  : 
io 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 

“Why  are  we  so  profoundly  moved  by 
forms  related  in  a particular  way  ? ” The 
question  is  extremely  interesting,  but  irre- 
levant to  aesthetics.  In  pure  aesthetics  we 
have  only  to  consider  our  emotion  and  its 
object : for  the  purposes  of  aesthetics  we 
have  no  right,  neither  is  there  any  neces- 
sity, to  pry  behind  the  object  into  the 
state  of  mind  of  him  who  made  it.  Later, 
I shall  attempt  to  answer  the  question ; for 
by  so  doing  I may  be  able  to  develop  my 
theory  of  the  relation  of  art  to  life.  I 
shall  not,  however,  be  under  the  delusion 
that  I am  rounding  off  my  theory  of 
aesthetics.  For  a discussion  of  aesthetics, 
it  need  be  agreed  only  that  forms  arranged 
and  combined  according  to  certain  unknown 
and  mysterious  laws  do  move  us  in  a par- 
ticular way,  and  that  it  is  the  business  of 
an  artist  so  to  combine  and  arrange  them 
that  they  shall  move  us.  These  moving 
combinations  and  arrangements  I have  called, 
for  the  sake  of  convenience  and  for  a 
reason  that  will  appear  later,  “Significant 
Form.” 

A third  interruption  has  to  be  met. 
" Are  you  forgetting  about  colour?”  some- 
one inquires.  Certainly  not  ; my  term 
“significant  form”  included  combinations 


ART 


of  lines  and  of  colours.  The  distinction 
between  form  and  colour  is  an  unreal  one ; 
you  cannot  conceive  a colourless  line  or 
a colourless  space ; neither  can  you  con- 
ceive a formless  relation  of  colours.  In 
a black  and  white  drawing  the  spaces  are 
all  white  and  all  are  bounded  by  black 
lines ; in  most  oil  paintings  the  spaces  are 
multi-coloured  and  so  are  the  boundaries ; 
you  cannot  imagine  a boundary  line  with- 
out any  content,  or  a content  without 
a boundary  line.  Therefore,  when  I speak 
of  significant  form,  I mean  a combination 
of  lines  and  colours  (counting  white  and 
black  as  colours)  that  moves  me  aestheti- 
cally. 

Some  people  may  be  surprised  at  my  not 
having  called  this  “ beauty.”  Of  course,  to 
those  who  define  beauty  as  “ combinations 
of  lines  and  colours  that  provoke  aesthetic 
emotion,”  I willingly  concede  the  right  of 
substituting  their  word  for  mine.  But  most 
of  us,  however  strict  we  may  be,  are  apt 
to  apply  the  epithet  “ beautiful  ” to  objects 
that  do  not  provoke  that  peculiar  emotion 
produced  by  works  of  art.  Everyone,  I 
suspect,  has  called  a butterfly  or  a flower 
beautiful.  Does  anyone  feel  the  same  kind 
of  emotion  for  a butterfly  or  a flower  that 
12 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 


he  feels  for  a cathedral  or  a picture  ? 
Surely,  it  is  not  what  I call  an  aesthetic 
emotion  that  most  of  us  feel,  generally, 
for  natural  beauty.  I shall  suggest,  later, 
that  some  people  may,  occasionally,  see  in 
nature  what  we  see  in  art,  and  feel  for 
her  an  aesthetic  emotion ; but  I am  satis- 
fied that,  as  a rule,  most  people  feel  a 
very  different  kind  of  emotion  for  birds 
and  flowers  and  the  wings  of  butterflies 
from  that  which  they  feel  for  pictures,  pots, 
temples  and  statues.  Why  these  beautiful 
things  do  not  move  us  as  works  of  art 
move  is  another,  and  not  an  aesthetic,  ques- 
tion. For  our  immediate  purpose  we  have 
to  discover  only  what  quality  is  common  to 
objects  that  do  move  us  as  works  of  art. 
In  the  last  part  of  this  chapter,  when  I try 
to  answer  the  question — “ Why  are  we  so 
profoundly  moved  by  some  combinations  of 
lines  and  colours  ? ” I shall  hope  to  offer 
an  acceptable  explanation  of  why  we  are  less 
profoundly  moved  by  others. 

Since  we  call  a quality  that  does  not 
raise  the  characteristic  aesthetic  emotion 
“ Beauty,”  it  would  be  misleading  to  call 
by  the  same  name  the  quality  that  does. 
To  make  “beauty”  the  object  of  the 
aesthetic  emotion,  we  must  give  to  the 

*3 


ART 


word  an  over-strict  and  unfamiliar  defini- 
tion. Everyone  sometimes  uses  “ beauty  ” 
in  an  unaesthetic  sense  ; most  people  habitu- 
ally do  so.  To  everyone,  except  perhaps 
here  and  there  an  occasional  aesthete,  the 
commonest  sense  of  the  word  is  unaesthetic. 
Of  its  grosser  abuse,  patent  in  our  chatter 
about  “ beautiful  huntin’  ” and  “ beautiful 
shootin’,”  I need  not  take  account ; it  would 
be  open  to  the  precious  to  reply  that  they 
never  do  so  abuse  it.  Besides,  here  there 
is  no  danger  of  confusion  between  the 
aesthetic  and  the  non-aesthetic  use ; but 
when  we  speak  of  a beautiful  woman 
there  is.  When  an  ordinary  man  speaks 
of  a beautiful  woman  he  certainly  does  not 
mean  only  that  she  moves  him  aestheti- 
cally; but  when  an  artist  calls  a withered 
old  hag  beautiful  he  may  sometimes  mean 
what  he  means  when  he  calls  a battered 
torso  beautiful.  The  ordinary  man,  if  he 
be  also  a man  of  taste,  will  call  the  battered 
torso  beautiful,  but  he  will  not  call  a 
withered  hag  beautiful  because,  in  the 
matter  of  women,  it  is  not  to  the  aesthetic 
quality  that  the  hag  may  possess,  but  to 
some  other  quality  that  he  assigns  the 
epithet.  Indeed,  most  of  us  never  dream 
of  going  for  aesthetic  emotions  to  human 
14 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 

beings,  from  whom  we  ask  something  very 
different.  This  “something,”  when  we  find 
it  in  a young  woman,  we  are  apt  to  call 
“ beauty.”  We  live  in  a nice  age.  With 
the  man-in-the-street  “ beautiful  ” is  more 
often  than  not  synonymous  with  “ desir- 
able”; the  word  does  not  necessarily  con- 
note any  aesthetic  reaction  whatever,  and  I 
am  tempted  to  believe  that  in  the  minds 
of  many  the  sexual  flavour  of  the  word  is 
stronger  than  the  aesthetic.  I have  noticed 
a consistency  in  those  to  whom  the  most 
beautiful  thing  in  the  world  is  a beautiful 
woman,  and  the  next  most  beautiful  thing 
a picture  of  one.  The  confusion  between 
aesthetic  and  sensual  beauty  is  not  in  their 
case  so  great  as  might  be  supposed.  Per- 
haps there  is  none ; for  perhaps  they  have 
never  had  an  aesthetic  emotion  to  confuse 
with  their  other  emotions.  The  art  that 
they  call  u beautiful  ” is  generally  closely 
related  to  the  women.  A beautiful  picture 
is  a photograph  of  a pretty  girl ; beautiful 
music,  the  music  that  provokes  emotions 
similar  to  those  provoked  by  young  ladies 
in  musical  farces ; and  beautiful  poetry,  the 
poetry  that  recalls  the  same  emotions  felt, 
twenty  years  earlier,  for  the  rector’s  daughter. 
Clearly  the  word  “ beauty  ” is  used  to  con- 

15 


ART 


note  the  objects  of  quite  distinguishable 
emotions,  and  that  is  a reason  for  not  em- 
ploying a term  which  would  land  me  in- 
evitably in  confusions  and  misunderstandings 
with  my  readers. 

On  the  other  hand,  with  those  who 
judge  it  more  exact  to  call  these  com- 
binations and  arrangements  of  form  that 
provoke  our  aesthetic  emotions,  not  “signi- 
ficant form,”  but  “significant  relations  of 
form,”  and  then  try  to  make  the  best  of 
two  worlds,  the  aesthetic  and  the  meta- 
physical, by  calling  these  relations  “ rhythm,” 
I have  no  quarrel  whatever.  Having  made 
it  clear  that  by  “ significant  form  ” I mean 
arrangements  and  combinations  that  move 
us  in  a particular  way,  I willingly  join 
hands  with  those  who  prefer  to  give  a 
different  name  to  the  same  thing. 

The  hypothesis  that  significant  form  is 
the  essential  quality  in  a work  of  art  has 
at  least  one  merit  denied  to  many  more 
famous  and  more  striking — it  does  help  to 
explain  things.  We  are  all  familiar  with 
pictures  that  interest  us  and  excite  our 
admiration,  but  do  not  move  us  as  works 
of  art.  To  this  class  belongs  what  I call 
“ Descriptive  Painting  ” — that  is,  painting 
in  which  forms  are  used  not  as  objects  of 
1 6 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 


emotion,  but  as  means  of  suggesting  emotion 
or  conveying  information.  Portraits  of 
psychological  and  historical  value,  topo- 
graphical works,  pictures  that  tell  stories 
and  suggest  situations,  illustrations  of  all 
sorts,  belong  to  this  class.  That  we  all 
recognise  the  distinction  is  clear,  for  who 
has  not  said  that  such  and  such  a drawing 
was  excellent  as  illustration,  but  as  a work 
of  art  worthless  ? Of  course  many  de- 
scriptive pictures  possess,  amongst  other 
qualities,  formal  significance,  and  are  there- 
fore works  of  art : but  many  more  do 
not.  They  interest  us ; they  may  move 
us  too  in  a hundred  different  ways,  but 
they  do  not  move  us  aesthetically.  Accord- 
ing to  my  hypothesis  they  are  not  works 
of  art.  They  leave  untouched  our  aesthetic 
emotions  because  it  is  not  their  forms  but 
the  ideas  or  information  suggested  or  con- 
veyed by  their  forms  that  affect  us. 

Few  pictures  are  better  known  or  liked 
than  Frith’s  “ Paddington  Station  ” ; cer- 
tainly I should  be  the  last  to  grudge  it 
its  popularity.  Many  a weary  forty  minutes 
have  I whiled  away  disentangling  its  fasci- 
nating incidents  and  forging  foi  each  an 
imaginary  past  and  an  improbable  future. 
But  certain  though  it  is  that  Frith’s  master- 
17  B 


ART 


piece,  or  engravings  of  it,  have  provided 
thousands  with  half-hours  of  curious  and 
fanciful  pleasure,  it  is  not  less  certain  that 
no  one  has  experienced  before  it  one  half- 
second  of  aesthetic  rapture  — and  this 
although  the  picture  contains  several  pretty 
passages  of  colour,  and  is  by  no  means 
badly  painted.  “ Paddington  Station  ” is  not 
a work  of  art ; it  is  an  interesting  and  amus- 
ing document.  In  it  line  and  colour  are 
used  to  recount  anecdotes,  suggest  ideas,  and 
indicate  the  manners  and  customs  of  an  age : 
they  are  not  used  to  provoke  aesthetic  emo- 
tion. Forms  and  the  relations  of  forms  were 
for  Frith  not  objects  of  emotion,  but  means 
of  suggesting  emotion  and  conveying  ideas. 

The  ideas  and  information  conveyed  by 
“ Paddington  Station  ” are  so  amusing  and 
so  well  presented  that  the  picture  has 
considerable  value  and  is  well  worth  pre- 
serving. But,  with  the  perfection  of  photo- 
graphic processes  and  of  the  cinematograph, 
pictures  of  this  sort  are  becoming  otiose. 
Who  doubts  that  one  of  those  Daily 
Mirror  photographers  in  collaboration  with 
a Daily  Mail  reporter  can  tell  us  far  more 
about  “ London  day  by  day  ” than  any 
Royal  Academician?  For  an  account  of 
manners  and  fashions  we  shall  go,  in 
1 8 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 

future,  to  photographs,  supported  by  a 
little  bright  journalism,  rather  than  to 
descriptive  painting.  Had  the  imperial 
academicians  of  Nero,  instead  of  manufac- 
turing incredibly  loathsome  imitations  of 
the  antique,  recorded  in  fresco  and  mosaic 
the  manners  and  fashions  of  their  day, 
their  stuff*,  though  artistic  rubbish,  would 
now  be  an  historical  gold-mine.  If  only 
they  had  been  Friths  instead  of  being  Alma 
Tademas!  But  photography  has  made  im- 
possible any  such  transmutation  of  modern 
rubbish.  Therefore  it  must  be  confessed 
that  pictures  in  the  Frith  tradition  are 
grown  superfluous ; they  merely  waste  the 
hours  of  able  men  who  might  be  more 
profitably  employed  in  works  of  a wider 
beneficence.  Still,  they  are  not  unpleasant, 
which  is  more  than  can  be  said  for  that 
kind  of  descriptive  painting  of  which  “ The 
Doctor”  is  the  most  flagrant  example.  Of 
course  “ The  Doctor  ” is  not  a work  of 
art.  In  it  form  is  not  used  as  an  object 
of  emotion,  but  as  a means  of  suggesting 
emotions.  This  alone  suffices  to  make  it 
nugatory ; it  is  worse  than  nugatory  be- 
cause the  emotion  it  suggests  is  false. 
What  it  suggests  is  not  pity  and  admira- 
tion but  a sense  of  complacency  in  our 

19 


ART 


own  pitifulness  and  generosity.  It  is  senti- 
mental. Art  is  above  morals,  or,  rather, 
all  art  is  moral  because,  as  I hope  to  show 
presently,  works  of  art  are  immediate  means 
to  good.  Once  we  have  judged  a thing  a 
work  of  art,  we  have  judged  it  ethically 
of  the  first  importance  and  put  it  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  moralist.  But  descriptive 
pictures  which  are  not  works  of  art,  and, 
therefore,  are  not  necessarily  means  to  good 
states  of  mind,  are  proper  objects  of  the 
ethical  philosopher’s  attention.  Not  being 
a work  of  art,  “ The  Doctor  ” has  none  of 
the  immense  ethical  value  possessed  by  all 
objects  that  provoke  aesthetic  ecstasy ; and 
the  state  of  mind  to  which  it  is  a means, 
as  illustration,  appears  to  me  undesirable. 

The  works  of  those  enterprising  young 
men,  the  Italian  Futurists,  are  notable 
examples  of  descriptive  painting.  Like  the 
Royal  Academicians,  they  use  form,  not  to 
provoke  aesthetic  emotions,  but  to  convey 
information  and  ideas.  Indeed,  the  published 
theories  of  the  Futurists  prove  that  their 
pictures  ought  to  have  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  art.  Their  social  and  political 
theories  are  respectable,  but  I would  suggest 
to  young  Italian  painters  that  it  is  possible  to 
become  a Futurist  in  thought  and  action  and 
20 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 


yet  remain  an  artist,  if  one  has  the  luck  to 
be  born  one.  To  associate  art  with  politics 
is  always  a mistake.  Futurist  pictures  are 
descriptive  because  they  aim  at  presenting  in 
line  and  colour  the  chaos  of  the  mind  at  a 
particular  moment ; their  forms  are  not  in- 
tended to  promote  aesthetic  emotion  but  to 
convey  information.  These  forms,  by  the 
way,  whatever  may  be  the  nature  of  the 
ideas  they  suggest,  are  themselves  anything 
but  revolutionary.  In  such  Futurist  pictures 
as  I have  seen — perhaps  I should  except  some 
by  Severini — the  drawing,  whenever  it  be- 
comes representative  as  it  frequently  does,  is 
found  to  be  in  that  soft  and  common  conven- 
tion brought  into  fashion  by  Besnard  some 
thirty  years  ago,  and  much  affected  by  Beaux- 
Art  students  ever  since.  As  works  of  art, 
the  Futurist  pictures  are  negligible;  but 
they  are  not  to  be  judged  as  works  of  art. 
A good  Futurist  picture  would  succeed  as  a 
good  piece  of  psychology  succeeds;  it  would 
reveal,  through  line  and  colour,  the  com- 
plexities of  an  interesting  state  of  mind.  If 
Futurist  pictures  seem  to  fail,  we  must  seek 
an  explanation,  not  in  a lack  of  artistic 
qualities  that  they  never  were  intended  to 
possess,  but  rather  in  the  minds  the  states  of 
which  they  are  intended  to  reveal. 

21 


ART 


Most  people  who  care  much  about  art 
find  that  of  the  work  that  moves  them  most 
the  greater  part  is  what  scholars  call  “ Primi- 
tive.” Of  course  there  are  bad  primitives. 
For  instance,  I remember  going,  full  of 
enthusiasm,  to  see  one  of  the  earliest 
Romanesque  churches  in  Poitiers  (Notre- 
Dame-la-Grande),  and  finding  it  as  ill-pro- 
portioned, over-decorated,  coarse,  fat  and 
heavy  as  any  better  class  building  by  one  of 
those  highly  civilised  architects  who  flourished 
a thousand  years  earlier  or  eight  hundred 
later.  But  such  exceptions  are  rare.  As  a 
rule  primitive  art  is  good — and  here  again 
my  hypothesis  is  helpful — for,  as  a rule,  it 
is  also  free  from  descriptive  qualities.  In 
primitive  art  you  will  find  no  accurate  re- 
presentation ; you  will  find  only  significant 
form.  Yet  no  other  art  moves  us  so  pro- 
foundly. Whether  we  consider  Sumerian 
sculpture  or  pre-dynastic  Egyptian  art,  or 
archaic  Greek,  or  the  Wei  and  T’ang  master- 
pieces, 1 or  those  early  Japanese  works  of 

1 The  existence  of  the  Ku  K’ai-chih  makes  it  clear  that 
the  art  of  this  period  (fifth  to  eighth  centuries),  was  a 
typical  primitive  movement.  To  call  the  great  vital  art 
of  the  Liang,  Chen,  Wei,  and  Tang  dynasties  a develop- 
ment out  of  the  exquisitely  refined  and  exhausted  art 
of  the  Han  decadence — from  which  Ku  K’ai-chih  is  a 
delicate  straggler — is  to  call  Romanesque  sculpture  a 
development  out  of  Praxiteles.  Between  the  two  some- 
22 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 


which  I had  the  luck  to  see  a few  superb 
examples  (especially  two  wooden  Bodhi- 
sattvas)  at  the  Shepherd’s  Bush  Exhibition  in 
1910,  or  whether,  coming  nearer  home,  we 
consider  the  primitive  Byzantine  art  of  the 
sixth  century  and  its  primitive  developments 
amongst  the  Western  barbarians,  or,  turning 
far  afield,  we  consider  that  mysterious  and 
majestic  art  that  flourished  in  Central  and 
South  America  before  the  coming  of  the 
white  men,  in  every  case  we  observe  three 
common  characteristics — absence  of  repre- 
sentation, absence  of  technical  swagger,  sub- 
limely impressive  form.  Nor  is  it  hard  to 
discover  the  connection  between  these  three. 
Formal  significance  loses  itself  in  preoccupa- 
tion with  exact  representation  and  ostentatious 
cunning.1 

thing  has  happened  to  refill  the  stream  of  art.  What 
had  happened  in  China  was  the  spiritual  and  emotional 
revolution  that  followed  the  onset  of  Buddhism. 

1 This  is  not  to  say  that  exact  representation  is  bad  in 
itself.  It  is  indifferent.  A perfectly  represented  form 
may  be  significant,  only  it  is  fatal  to  sacrifice  significance 
to  representation.  The  quarrel  between  significance  and 
illusion  seems  to  be  as  old  as  art  itself,  and  I have  little 
doubt  that  what  makes  most  palaeolithic  art  so  bad  is 
a preoccupation  with  exact  representation.  Evidently 
palaeolithic  draughtsmen  had  no  sense  of  the  significance 
of  form.  Their  art  resembles  that  of  the  more  capable 
and  sincere  Royal  Academicians : it  is  a little  higher 
than  that  of  Sir  Edward  Poynter  and  a little  lower  than 
that  of  the  late  Lord  Leighton.  That  this  is  no  paradox 

23 


ART 


Naturally,  it  is  said  that  if  there  is  little 
representation  and  less  saltimbancery  in 
primitive  art,  that  is  because  the  primitives 
were  unable  to  catch  a likeness  or  cut  intel- 
lectual capers.  The  contention  is  beside 
the  point.  There  is  truth  in  it,  no  doubt, 
though,  were  I a critic  whose  reputation 
depended  on  a power  of  impressing  the 
public  with  a semblance  of  knowledge,  1 
should  be  more  cautious  about  urging  it 
than  such  people  generally  are.  For  to 
suppose  that  the  Byzantine  masters  wanted 
skill,  or  could  not  have  created  an  illusion 
had  they  wished  to  do  so,  seems  to  imply 
ignorance  of  the  amazingly  dexterous  realism 
of  the  notoriously  bad  works  of  that  age. 
Very  often,  I fear,  the  misrepresentation  of 
the  primitives  must  be  attributed  to  what 
the  critics  call,  “ wilful  distortion.”  Be  that 
as  it  may,  the  point  is  that,  either  from  want 
of  skill  or  want  of  will,  primitives  neither 
create  illusions,  nor  make  display  of  ex- 

let  the  cave-drawings  of  Altamira,  or  such  works  as  the 
sketches  of  horses  found  at  Bruniquel  and  now  in  the 
British  Museum,  bear  witness.  If  the  ivory  head  of  a 
girl  from  the  Grotte  du  Pape,  Brassempouy  (Muste  St. 
Germain ) and  the  ivory  torso  found  at  the  same  place 
(< Collection  St.  Cric)y  be,  indeed,  palaeolithic,  then  there 
were  good  palaeolithic  artists  who  created  and  did  not 
imitate  form.  Neolithic  art  is,  of  course,  a very  different 
matter. 


24 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 


travagant  accomplishment,  but  concentrate 
their  energies  on  the  one  thing  needful — the 
creation  of  form.  Thus  have  they  created 
the  finest  works  of  art  that  we  possess. 

Let  no  one  imagine  that  representation 
is  bad  in  itself ; a realistic  form  may  be  as 
significant,  in  its  place  as  part  of  the  design, 
as  an  abstract.  But  if  a representative  form 
has  value,  it  is  as  form,  not  as  representation. 
The  representative  element  in  a work  of 
art  may  or  may  not  be  harmful ; always  it  is 
irrelevant.  For,  to  appreciate  a work  of  art 
we  need  bring  with  us  nothing  from  life, 
no  knowledge  of  its  ideas  and  affairs,  no 
familiarity  with  its  emotions.  Art  trans- 
ports us  from  the  world  of  man’s  activity  to 
a world  of  aesthetic  exaltation.  For  a 
moment  we  are  shut  off  from  human  in- 
terests ; our  anticipations  and  memories  are 
arrested  ; we  are  lifted  above  the  stream  of 
life.  The  pure  mathematician  rapt  in  his 
studies  knows  a state  of  mind  which  I take 
to  be  similar,  if  not  identical.  He  feels  an 
emotion  for  his  speculations  which  arises 
from  no  perceived  relation  between  them 
and  the  lives  of  men,  but  springs,  in- 
human or  super-human,  from  the  heart  of 
an  abstract  science.  I wonder,  sometimes, 
whether  the  appreciators  of  art  and  of 

25 


ART 


mathematical  solutions  are  not  even  more 
closely  allied.  Before  we  feel  an  aesthetic 
emotion  for  a combination  of  forms,  do  we 
not  perceive  intellectually  the  rightness  and 
necessity  of  the  combination  ? If  we  do,  it 
would  explain  the  fact  that  passing  rapidly 
through  a room  we  recognise  a picture  to 
be  good,  although  we  cannot  say  that  it  has 
provoked  much  emotion.  We  seem  to 
have  recognised  intellectually  the  rightness 
of  its  forms  without  staying  to  fix  our  atten- 
tion, and  collect,  as  it  were,  their  emotional 
significance.  If  this  were  so,  it  would  be 
permissible  to  inquire  whether  it  was  the 
forms  themselves  or  our  perception  of  their 
rightness  and  necessity  that  caused  aesthetic 
emotion.  But  I do  not  think  I need  linger 
to  discuss  the  matter  here.  I have  been 
inquiring  why  certain  combinations  of  forms 
move  us ; I should  not  have  travelled  by 
other  roads  had  I enquired,  instead,  why 
certain  combinations  are  perceived  to  be 
right  and  necessary,  and  why  our  perception 
of  their  rightness  and  necessity  is  moving. 
What  I have  to  say  is  this : the  rapt  philo- 
sopher, and  he  who  contemplates  a work  of 
art,  inhabit  a world  with  an  intense  and 
peculiar  significance  of  its  own ; that  signi- 
ficance is  unrelated  to  the  significance  of 
26 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 


life.  In  this  world  the  emotions  of  life 
find  no  place.  It  is  a world  with  emotions 
of  its  own. 

To  appreciate  a work  of  art  we  need 
bring  with  us  nothing  but  a sense  of  form  and 
colour  and  a knowledge  of  three-dimensional 
space.  That  bit  of  knowledge,  I admit,  is 
essential  to  the  appreciation  of  many  great 
works,  since  many  of  the  most  moving 
forms  ever  created  are  in  three  dimensions. 
To  see  a cube  or  a rhomboid  as  a flat  pattern 
is  to  lower  its  significance,  and  a sense  of 
three-dimensional  space  is  essential  to  the  full 
appreciation  of  most  architectural  forms. 
Pictures  which  would  be  insignificant  if  we 
saw  them  as  flat  patterns  are  profoundly 
moving  because,  in  fact,  we  see  them  as 
related  planes.  If  the  representation  of 
three-dimensional  space  is  to  be  called  “ re- 
presentation,’’ then  I agree  that  there  is 
one  kind  of  representation  which  is  not 
irrelevant.  Also,  I agree  that  along  with 
our  feeling  for  line  and  colour  we  must 
bring  with  us  our  knowledge  of  space  if  we 
are  to  make  the  most  of  every  kind  of  form. 
Nevertheless,  there  are  magnificent  designs 
to  an  appreciation  of  which  this  knowledge 
is  not  necessary  : so,  though  it  is  not  irre- 
levant to  the  appreciation  of  some  works  of 


27 


ART 


art  it  is  not  essential  to  the  appreciation 
of  all.  What  we  must  say  is  that  the 
representation  of  three  - dimensional  space 
is  neither  irrelevant  nor  essential  to  all  art, 
and  that  every  other  sort  of  representation 
is  irrelevant. 

That  there  is  an  irrelevant  representative 
or  descriptive  element  in  many  great  works 
of  art  is  not  in  the  least  surprising.  Why 
it  is  not  surprising  I shall  try  to  show  else- 
where. Representation  is  not  of  necessity 
baneful,  and  highly  realistic  forms  may  be 
extremely  significant.  Very  often,  however, 
representation  is  a sign  of  weakness  in  an 
artist.  A painter  too  feeble  to  create  forms 
that  provoke  more  than  a little  aesthetic 
emotion  will  try  to  eke  that  little  out  by 
suggesting  the  emotions  of  life.  To  evoke 
the  emotions  of  life  he  must  use  representa- 
tion. Thus  a man  will  paint  an  execution, 
and,  fearing  to  miss  with  his  first  barrel 
of  significant  form,  will  try  to  hit  with  his 
second  by  raising  an  emotion  of  fear  or 
pity.  But  if  in  the  artist  an  inclination 
to  play  upon  the  emotions  of  life  is  often 
the  sign  of  a flickering  inspiration,  in  the 
spectator  a tendency  to  seek,  behind  form, 
the  emotions  of  life  is  a sign  of  defective 
sensibility  always.  It  means  that  his  aesthetic 
28 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 

emotions  are  weak  or,  at  any  rate,  imperfect. 
Before  a work  of  art  people  who  feel  little 
or  no  emotion  for  pure  form  find  themselves 
at  a loss.  They  are  deaf  men  at  a concert. 
They  know  that  they  are  in  the  presence  of 
something  great,  but  they  lack  the  power 
of  apprehending  it.  They  know  that  they 
ought  to  feel  for  it  a tremendous  emotion, 
but  it  happens  that  the  particular  kind  of 
emotion  it  can  raise  is  one  that  they  can 
feel  hardly  or  not  at  all.  And  so  they  read 
into  the  forms  of  the  work  those  facts  and 
ideas  for  which  they  are  capable  of  feeling 
emotion,  and  feel  for  them  the  emotions 
that  they  can  teel — the  ordinary  emotions  of 
life.  When  confronted  by  a picture,  in- 
stinctively they  refer  back  its  forms  to  the 
world  from  which  they  came.  They  treat 
created  form  as  though  it  were  imitated 
form,  a picture  as  though  it  were  a photo- 
graph. Instead  of  going  out  on  the  stream 
of  art  into  a new  world  of  aesthetic  experi- 
ence, they  turn  a sharp  corner  and  come 
straight  home  to  the  world  of  human 
interests.  For  them  the  significance  of  a 
work  of  art  depends  on  what  they  bring 
to  it ; no  new  thing  is  added  to  their  lives, 
only  the  oid  material  is  stirred.  A good 
work  of  visual  art  carries  a person  who  is 
29 


ART 


capable  of  appreciating  it  out  of  life  into 
ecstasy : to  use  art  as  a means  to  the 
emotions  of  life  is  to  use  a telescope  for 
reading  the  news.  You  will  notice  that 
people  who  cannot  feel  pure  aesthetic  emo- 
tions remember  pictures  by  their  subjects ; 
whereas  people  who  can,  as  often  as  not, 
have  no  idea  what  the  subject  of  a picture 
is.  They  have  never  noticed  the  repre- 
sentative element,  and  so  when  they  discuss 
pictures  they  talk  about  the  shapes  of  forms 
and  the  relations  and  quantities  of  colours. 
Often  they  can  tell  by  the  quality  of  a 
single  line  whether  or  no  a man  is  a good 
artist.  They  are  concerned  only  with  lines 
and  colours,  their  relations  and  quantities 
and  qualities ; but  from  these  they  win  an 
emotion  more  profound  and  far  more 
sublime  than  any  that  can  be  given  by  the 
description  of  facts  and  ideas. 

This  last  sentence  has  a very  confident 
ring — over-confident,  some  may  think.  Per- 
haps I shall  be  able  to  justify  it,  and  make 
my  meaning  clearer  too,  if  I give  an  account 
of  my  own  feelings  about  music.  I am 
not  really  musical.  I do  not  understand 
music  well.  I find  musical  form  exceedingly 
difficult  to  apprehend,  and  I am  sure  that 
the  profounder  subtleties  of  harmony  and 
30 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 

rhythm  more  often  than  not  escape  me. 
The  form  of  a musical  composition  must 
be  simple  indeed  if  I am  to  grasp  it 
honestly.  My  opinion  about  music  is  not 
worth  having.  Yet,  sometimes,  at  a concert, 
though  my  appreciation  of  the  music  is 
limited  and  humble,  it  is  pure.  Sometimes, 
though  I have  a poor  understanding,  I have 
a clean  palate.  Consequently,  when  I am 
feeling  bright  and  clear  and  intent,  at  the 
beginning  of  a concert  for  instance,  when 
something  that  I can  grasp  is  being  played, 
I get  from  music  that  pure  aesthetic  emotion 
that  I get  from  visual  art.  It  is  less  intense, 
and  the  rapture  is  evanescent ; I understand 
music  too  ill  for  music  to  transport  me  far 
into  the  world  of  pure  aesthetic  ecstasy. 
But  at  moments  I do  appreciate  music  as 
pure  musical  form,  as  sounds  combined 
according  to  the  laws  of  a mysterious  neces- 
sity, as  pure  art  with  a tremendous  signific- 
ance of  its  own  and  no  relation  whatever 
to  the  significance  of  life ; and  in  those 
moments  I lose  myself  in  that  infinitely 
sublime  state  of  mind  to  which  pure  visual 
form  transports  me.  How  inferior  is  my 
normal  state  of  mind  at  a concert.  Tired 
or  perplexed,  I let  slip  my  sense  of  form, 
my  aesthetic  emotion  collapses,  and  I begin 
31 


ART 


weaving  into  the  harmonies,  that  I cannot 
grasp,  the  ideas  of  life.  Incapable  of  feeling 
the  austere  emotions  of  art,  I begin  to  read 
into  the  musical  forms  human  emotions 
of  terror  and  mystery,  love  and  hate,  and 
spend  the  minutes,  pleasantly  enough,  in 
a world  of  turbid  and  inferior  feeling.  At 
such  times,  were  the  grossest  pieces  of 
onomatopoeic  representation — the  song  of 
a bird,  the  galloping  of  horses,  the  cries 
of  children,  or  the  laughing  of  demons — 
to  be  introduced  into  the  symphony,  I should 
not  be  offended.  Very  likely  I should  be 
pleased ; they  would  afford  new  points  of 
departure  for  new  trains  of  romantic  feeling 
or  heroic  thought.  I know  very  well  what 
has  happened.  I have  been  using  art  as 
a means  to  the  emotions  of  life  and  reading 
into  it  the  ideas  of  life.  I have  been  cutting 
blocks  with  a razor.  I have  tumbled  from 
the  superb  peaks  of  aesthetic  exaltation  to 
the  snug  foothills  of  warm  humanity.  It  is 
a jolly  country.  No  one  need  be  ashamed 
or  enjoying  himself  there.  Only  no  one 
who  has  ever  been  on  the  heights  can  help 
feeling  a little  crestfallen  in  the  cosy  valleys 
And  let  no  one  imagine,  because  he  has 
made  merry  in  the  warm  tilth  and  quaint 
nooks  of  romance,  that  he  can  even  guess 
32 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 


at  the  austere  and  thrilling  raptures  of  those 
who  have  climbed  the  cold,  white  peaks 
of  art. 

About  music  most  people  are  as  willing 
to  be  humble  as  I am.  If  they  cannot  grasp 
musical  form  and  win  from  it  a pure  aesthetic 
emotion,  they  confess  that  they  understand 
music  imperfectly  or  not  at  all.  They 
recognise  quite  clearly  that  there  is  a dif- 
ference between  the  feeling  of  the  musician 
for  pure  music  and  that  of  the  cheerful 
concert-goer  for  what  music  suggests.  The 
latter  enjoys  his  own  emotions,  as  he  has 
every  right  to  do,  and  recognises  their  in- 
feriority. Unfortunately,  people  are  apt  to 
be  less  modest  about  their  powers  of  appre- 
ciating visual  art.  Everyone  is  inclined  to 
believe  that  out  of  pictures,  at  any  rate,  he 
can  get  all  that  there  is  to  be  got ; every- 
one is  ready  to  cry  “humbug”  and  “ im- 
postor ” at  those  who  say  that  more  can  be 
had.  The  good  faith  of  people  who  feel 
pure  aesthetic  emotions  is  called  in  question 
by  those  who  have  never  felt  anything  of  the 
sort.  It  is  the  prevalence  of  the  representa- 
tive element,  I suppose,  that  makes  the  man 
in  the  street  so  sure  that  he  knows  a good 
picture  when  he  sees  one.  For  I have 
noticed  that  in  matters  of  architecture, 
33  c 


ART 


pottery,  textiles,  &c.,  ignorance  and  inepti- 
tude are  more  willing  to  defer  to  the  opinions 
of  those  who  have  been  blest  with  peculiar 
sensibility.  It  is  a pity  that  cultivated  and 
intelligent  men  and  women  cannot  be  induced 
to  believe  that  a great  gift  of  aesthetic 
appreciation  is  at  least  as  rare  in  visual  as  in 
musical  art.  A comparison  of  my  own  ex- 
perience in  both  has  enabled  me  co  discrimi- 
nate very  clearly  between  pure  and  impure 
appreciation.  Is  it  too  much  to  ask  that  others 
should  be  as  honest  about  their  feelings  for 
pictures  as  I have  been  about  mine  for  music  ? 
For  I am  certain  that  most  of  those  who  visit 
galleries  do  feel  very  much  what  I feel  at 
concerts.  They  have  their  moments  of  pure 
ecstasy ; but  the  moments  are  short  and 
unsure  Soon  they  fall  back  into  the  world 
of  human  interests  and  feel  emotions,  good 
no  doubt,  but  inferior.  I do  not  dream  of 
saying  that  what  they  get  from  art  is  bad  or 
nugatory;  I say  that  they  do  not  get  the 
best  that  art  can  give.  I do  not  say  that 
they  cannot  understand  art ; rather  I say  that 
they  cannot  understand  the  state  of  mind  of 
those  who  understand  it  best.  I do  not  say 
that  art  means  nothing  or  little  to  them  ; I 
say  they  miss  its  full  significance.  I do  not 
suggest  for  one  moment  that  their  apprecia- 
34 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 


tion  of  art  is  a thing  to  be  ashamed  of ; the 
majority  of  the  charming  and  intelligent 
people  with  whom  I am  acquainted  appreciate 
visual  art  impurely ; and,  by  the  way,  the 
appreciation  of  almost  all  great  writers  has 
been  impure.  But  provided  that  there  be 
some  fraction  of  pure  aesthetic  emotion, 
even  a mixed  and  minor  appreciation  of  art 
is,  I am  sure,  one  of  the  most  valuable  things 
in  the  world — so  valuable,  indeed,  that  in 
my  giddier  moments  I have  been  tempted  to 
believe  that  art  might  prove  the  world’s 
salvation. 

Yet,  though  the  echoes  and  shadows  of 
art  enrich  the  life  of  the  plains,  her  spirit 
dwells  on  the  mountains.  To  him  who 
woos,  but  woos  impurely,  she  returns  en- 
riched what  is  brought.  Like  the  sun,  she 
warms  the  good  seed  in  good  soil  and  causes 
it  to  bring  forth  good  fruit.  But  only  to 
the  perfect  lover  does  she  give  a new  strange 
gift — a gift  beyond  all  price.  Imperfect 
lovers  bring  to  art  and  take  away  the  ideas 
and  emotions  of  their  own  age  and  civilisa- 
tion. In  twelfth-century  Europe  a man 
might  have  been  greatly  moved  by  a 
Romanesque  church  and  found  nothing  in 
a T’ang  picture.  To  a man  of  a later  age, 
Greek  sculpture  meant  much  and  Mexican 
35 


ART 


nothing,  for  only  to  the  former  could  he 
bring  a crowd  of  associated  ideas  to  be  the 
objects  of  familiar  emotions.  But  the  per- 
fect lover,  he  who  can  feel  the  profound 
significance  of  form,  is  raised  above  the 
accidents  of  time  and  place.  To  him  the 
problems  of  archaeology,  history,  and  hagio- 
graphy are  impertinent.  If  the  forms  of  a 
work  are  significant  its  provenance  is  ir- 
relevant. Before  the  grandeur  of  those 
Sumerian  figures  in  the  Louvre  he  is  carried 
on  the  same  flood  of  emotion  to  the  same 
aesthetic  ecstasy  as,  more  than  four  thousand 
years  ago,  the  Chaldean  lover  was  carried. 
It  is  the  mark  of  great  art  that  its  appeal 
is  universal  and  eternal.1  Significant  form 

1 Mr.  Roger  Fry  permits  me  to  make  use  of  an  inter- 
esting story  that  will  illustrate  my  view.  When  Mr. 
Okakura,  the  Government  editor  of  The  Temple  Treasures 
of  Japan , first  came  to  Europe,  he  found  no  difficulty  in 
appreciating  the  pictures  of  those  who  from  want  of  will 
or  want  of  skill  did  not  create  illusions  but  concentrated 
their  energies  on  the  creation  of  form.  He  understood 
immediately  the  Byzantine  masters  and  the  French  and 
Italian  Primitives.  In  the  Renaissance  painters,  on  the 
other  hand,  with  their  descriptive  pre-occupations,  their 
literary  and  anecdotic  interests,  he  could  see  nothing  but 
vulgarity  and  muddle.  The  universal  and  essential 
quality  of  art,  significant  form,  was  missing,  or  rather 
had  dwindled  to  a shallow  stream,  overlaid  and  hidden 
beneath  weeds,  so  the  universal  response,  aesthetic  emo- 
tion, was  not  evoked.  It  was  not  till  he  came  on  to 
Henri- Matisse  that  he  again  found  himself  in  the  familiar 
world  of  pure  art.  Similarly,  sensitive  Europeans  who 

36 


THE  AESTHETIC  HYPOTHESIS 


stands  charged  with  the  power  to  provoke 
aesthetic  emotion  in  anyone  capable  of  feel- 
ing it.  The  ideas  of  men  go  buzz  and  die 
like  gnats ; men  change  their  institutions 
and  their  customs  as  they  change  their  coats; 
the  intellectual  triumphs  of  one  age  are  the 
follies  of  another;  only  great  art  remains 
stable  and  unobscure.  Great  art  remains 
stable  and  unobscure  because  the  feelings 
that  it  awakens  are  independent  of  time  and 
place,  because  its  kingdom  is  not  of  this 
world.  To  those  who  have  and  hold  a sense 
of  the  significance  of  form  what  does  it 
matter  whether  the  forms  that  move  them 
were  created  in  Paris  the  day  before  yesterday 
or  in  Babylon  fifty  centuries  ago  ? The 
forms  of  art  are  inexhaustible  ; but  all  lead 
by  the  same  road  of  aesthetic  emotion  to  the 
same  world  of  aesthetic  ecstasy. 

respond  immediately  to  the  significant  forms  of  great 
Oriental  art,  are  left  cold  by  the  trivial  pieces  of  anecdote 
and  social  criticism  so  lovingly  cherished  by  Chinese 
dilettanti.  It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  instances  did  not 
decency  forbid  the  labouring  of  so  obvious  a truth. 


37 


II 


AESTHETICS  AND  POST- 
IMPRESSIONISM 

By  the  light  of  my  aesthetic  hypothesis  1 
can  read  more  clearly  than  before  the  history 
of  art ; also  I can  see  in  that  history  the 
place  of  the  contemporary  movement.  As 
I shall  have  a great  deal  to  say  about  the 
contemporary  movement,  perhaps  I shall  do 
well  to  seize  this  moment,  when  the  aesthetic 
hypothesis  is  fresh  in  my  mind  and,  I hope, 
in  the  minds  of  my  readers,  for  an  examina- 
tion of  the  movement  in  relation  to  the 
hypothesis.  For  anyone  of  my  generation 
to  write  a book  about  art  that  said  no- 
thing of  the  movement  dubbed  in  this 
country  Post  - Impressionist  would  be  a 
piece  of  pure  affectation.  I shall  have  a 
great  deal  to  say  about  it,  and  therefore  I 
wish  to  see  at  the  earliest  possible  oppor- 
tunity how  Post-Impressionism  stands  with 
regard  to  my  theory  of  aesthetics.  The 

38 


POST-IMPRESSIONISM 

survey  will  give  me  occasion  for  stating  some 
of  the  things  that  Post-Impressionism  is  and 
some  that  it  is  not.  I shall  have  to  raise 
points  that  will  be  dealt  with  at  greater 
length  elsewhere.  Here  I shall  have  a 
chance  of  raising  them,  and  at  least  suggest- 
ing a solution. 

Primitives  produce  art  because  they  must ; 
they  have  no  other  motive  than  a passionate 
desire  to  express  their  sense  of  form.  Un- 
tempted, or  incompetent,  to  create  illusions, 
to  the  creation  of  form  they  devote  them- 
selves entirely.  Presently,  however,  the 
artist  is  joined  by  a patron  and  a public,  and 
soon  there  grows  up  a demand  for  “ speaking 
likenesses.”  While  the  gross  herd  still 
clamours  for  likeness,  the  choicer  spirits 
begin  to  affect  an  admiration  for  cleverness 
and  skill.  The  end  is  in  sight.  In  Europe 
we  watch  art  sinking,  by  slow  degrees,  from 
the  thrilling  design  of  Ravenna  to  the  tedious 
portraiture  of  Holland,  while  the  grand 
proportion  of  Romanesque  and  Norman 
architecture  becomes  Gothic  juggling  in 
stone  and  glass.  Before  the  late  noon  of 
the  Renaissance  art  was  almost  extinct. 
Only  nice  illusionists  and  masters  of  craft 
abounded.  That  was  the  moment  for  a 
Post-Impressionist  revival. 

39 


ART 


For  various  reasons  there  was  no  revolu- 
tion. The  tradition  of  art  remained  coma- 
tose. Here  and  there  a genius  appeared 
and  wrestled  with  the  coils  of  convention  and 
created  significant  form.  For  instance,  the 
art  of  Nicolas  Poussin,  Claude,  El  Greco, 
Chardin,  Ingres,  and  Renoir,  to  name  a few, 
moves  us  as  that  of  Giotto  and  Cezanne 
moves.  The  bulk,  however,  of  those  who 
flourished  between  the  high  Renaissance  and 
the  contemporary  movement  may  be  divided 
into  two  classes,  virtuosi  and  dunces.  The 
clever  fellows,  the  minor  masters,  who  might 
have  been  artists  if  painting  had  not  absorbed 
all  their  energies,  were  throughout  that  period 
for  ever  setting  themselves  technical  acrostics 
and  solving  them.  The  dunces  continued 
to  elaborate  chromophotographs,  and  con- 
tinue. 

The  fact  that  significant  form  was  the  only 
common  quality  in  the  works  that  moved 
me,  and  that  in  the  works  that  moved  me 
most  and  seemed  most  to  move  the  most 
sensitive  people — in  primitive  art,  that  is  to 
say — it  was  almost  the  only  quality,  had  led 
me  to  my  hypothesis  before  ever  I became 
familiar  with  the  works  of  Cezanne  and  his 
followers.  Cezanne  carried  me  off  my  feet 
before  ever  I noticed  that  his  strongest  char- 
40 


POST-IMPRESSIONISM 


acteristic  was  an  insistence  on  the  supremacy 
of  significant  form.  When  I noticed  this, 
my  admiration  for  Cezanne  and  some  of  his 
followers  confirmed  me  in  my  aesthetic 
theories.  Naturally  I had  found  no  diffi- 
culty in  liking  them  since  I found  in  them 
exactly  what  I liked  in  everything  else  that 
moved  me. 

There  is  no  mystery  about  Post-Impres- 
sionism; a good  Post-Impressionist  picture  is 
good  for  precisely  the  same  reasons  that  any 
other  picture  is  good.  The  essential  quality 
in  art  is  permanent.  Post-Impressionism, 
therefore,  implies  no  violent  break  with  the 
past.  It  is  merely  a deliberate  rejection  of 
certain  hampering  traditions  or  modern 
growth.  It  does  deny  that  art  need  ever 
take  orders  from  the  past ; but  that  is  not 
a badge  of  Post-Impressionism,  it  is  the  com- 
monest mark  of  vitality.  Even  to  speak 
of  Post-Impressionism  as  a movement  may 
lead  to  misconceptions ; the  habit  of  speak- 
ing of  movements  at  all  is  rather  misleading. 
The  stream  of  art  has  never  run  utterly  dry : 
it  flows  through  the  ages,  now  broad  now 
narrow,  now  deep  now  shallow,  now  rapid 
now  sluggish  : its  colour  is  changing  always. 
But  who  can  set  a mark  against  the  exact 
point  of  change  ? In  the  earlier  nineteenth 
4i 


ART 


century  the  stream  ran  very  low.  In  the 
days  of  the  Impressionists,  against  whom  the 
contemporary  movement  is  m some  ways  a 
reaction,  it  had  already  become  copious. 
Any  attempt  to  dam  and  imprison  this  river, 
to  choose  out  a particular  school  or  move- 
ment and  say  : “ Here  art  begins  and  there  it 
ends,”  is  a pernicious  absurdity.  That  way 
Academization  lies.  At  this  moment  there 
are  not  above  half  a dozen  good  painters 
alive  who  do  not  derive,  to  some  extent, 
from  Cezanne,  and  belong,  in  some  sense,  to 
the  Post-Impressionist  movement ; but  to- 
morrow a great  painter  may  arise  who  will 
create  significant  form  by  means  superfici- 
ally opposed  to  those  of  Cezanne.  Super- 
ficially, I say,  because,  essentially,  all  good 
art  is  of  the  same  movement : there  are  only 
two  kinds  of  art,  good  and  bad.  Neverthe- 
less, the  division  of  the  stream  into  reaches, 
distinguished  by  differences  of  manner,  is  in- 
telligible and,  to  historians  at  any  rate,  useful 
The  reaches  also  differ  from  each  other  in 
volume ; one  period  of  art  is  distinguished 
from  another  by  its  fertility.  For  a few 
fortunate  years  or  decades  the  output  of  con- 
siderable art  is  great.  Suddenly  it  ceases ; 
or  slowly  it  dwindles : a movement  has  ex- 
hausted itself.  How  far  a movement  is 
42 


POST-IMPRESSIONISM 

made  by  the  fortuitous  synchronisation  of  a 
number  of  good  artists,  and  how  far  the 
artists  are  helped  to  the  creation  of  signifi- 
cant form  by  the  pervasion  of  some  under- 
lying spirit  of  the  age,  is  a question  that  can 
never  be  decided  beyond  cavil.  But  however 
the  credit  is  to  be  apportioned — and  I suspect 
it  should  be  divided  about  equally — we  are 
justified,  I think,  looking  at  the  history  of 
art  as  a whole,  in  regarding  such  periods  of 
fertility  as  distinct  parts  of  that  whole. 
Primarily,  it  is  as  a period  of  fertility  in  good 
art  and  artists  that  I admire  the  Post-Impres- 
sionist movement.  Also,  I believe  that  the 
principles  which  underlie  and  inspire  that 
movement  are  more  likely  to  encourage 
artists  to  give  of  their  best,  and  to  foster  a 
good  tradition,  than  any  of  which  modern 
history  bears  record.  But  my  interest  in  this 
movement,  and  my  admiration  for  much  of 
the  art  it  has  produced,  does  not  blind  me 
to  the  greatness  of  the  products  of  other 
movements ; neither,  I hope,  will  it  blind 
me  to  the  greatness  of  any  new  creation 
of  form  even  though  that  novelty  may 
seem  to  imply  a reaction  against  the  tradition 
of  Cezanne. 

Like  all  sound  revolutions,  Post-Impres- 
sionism is  nothing  more  than  a return  to 

43 


ART 


first  principles.  Into  a world  where  the 
painter  was  expected  to  be  either  a photo- 
grapher or  an  acrobat  burst  the  Post-Impres- 
sionist, claiming  that,  above  all  things,  he 
should  be  an  artist.  Never  mind,  said  he, 
about  representation  or  accomplishment — 
mind  about  creating  significant  form,  mind 
about  art.  Creating  a work  of  art  is  so 
tremendous  a business  that  it  leaves  no  leisure 
for  catching  a likeness  or  displaying  address. 
Every  sacrifice  made  to  representation  is 
something  stolen  from  art.  Far  from  being 
the  insolent  kind  of  revolution  it  is  vulgarly 
supposed  to  be,  Post-Impressionism  is,  in 
fact,  a return,  not  indeed  to  any  particular 
tradition  of  painting,  but  to  the  great  tradi- 
tion of  visual  art.  It  sets  before  every  artist 
the  ideal  set  before  themselves  by  the  primi- 
tives, an  ideal  which,  since  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, has  been  cherished  only  by  exceptional 
men  of  genius.  Post-Impressionism  is 
nothing  but  the  reassertion  of  the  first  com- 
mandment of  art — Thou  shalt  create  form. 
By  this  assertion  it  shakes  hands  across  the 
ages  with  the  Byzantine  primitives  and  with 
every  vital  movement  that  has  struggled  into 
existence  since  the  arts  began. 

Post-Impressionism  is  not  a matter  of 
technique.  Certainly  Cezanne  invented  a 

44 


POST-IMPRESSIONISM 


technique,  admirably  suited  to  his  purpose, 
which  has  been  adopted  and  elaborated, 
more  or  less,  by  the  majority  of  his  followers. 
The  important  thing  about  a picture,  how- 
ever, is  not  how  it  is  painted,  but  whether 
it  provokes  aesthetic  emotion.  As  I have 
said,  essentially,  a good  Post-Impressionist 
picture  resembles  all  other  good  works  of 
art,  and  only  differs  from  some,  superficially, 
by  a conscious  and  deliberate  rejection  of 
those  technical  and  sentimental  irrelevancies 
that  have  been  imposed  on  painting  by  a bad 
tradition.  This  becomes  obvious  when  one 
visits  an  exhibition  such  as  the  Salon  d' Au- 
tomate or  Les  Independants , where  there  are 
hundreds  of  pictures  in  the  Post-Impressionist 
manner,  many  of  which  are  quite  worthless.1 

1 Anyone  who  has  visited  the  very  latest  F rench  ex- 
hibitions will  have  seen  scores  of  what  are  called 
“ Cubist”  pictures.  These  afford  an  excellent  illustration 
of  my  thesis.  Of  a hundred  cubist  pictures  three  or 
four  will  have  artistic  value.  Thirty  years  ago  the  same 
might  have  been  said  of  “ Impressionist  ” pictures  ; forty 
years  before  that  of  romantic  pictures  in  the  manner  of 
Delacroix.  The  explanation  is  simple, — the  vast  majority 
of  those  who  paint  pictures  have  neither  originality  nor 
any  considerable  talent.  Left  to  themselves  they  would 
probably  produce  the  kind  of  painful  absurdity  which  in 
England  is  known  as  an  “ Academy  picture.”  But  a 
student  who  has  no  original  gift  may  yet  be  anything  but 
a fool,  and  many  students  understand  that  the  ordinary 
cultivated  picture-goer  knows  an  “ Academy  picture  ” at 
a glance  and  knows  that  it  is  bad.  Is  it  fair  to  condemn 

+5 


ART 


These,  one  realises,  are  bad  in  precisely  the 
same  way  as  any  other  picture  is  bad ; 
their  forms  are  insignificant  and  compel  no 
aesthetic  reaction.  In  truth,  it  was  an  un- 
fortunate necessity  that  obliged  us  to  speak 
of  “Post-Impressionist  pictures,”  and  now, 
I think,  the  moment  is  at  hand  when  we 
shall  be  able  to  return  to  the  older  and  more 
adequate  nomenclature,  and  speak  of  good 
pictures  and  bad.  Only  we  must  not  forget 
that  the  movement  of  which  Cezanne  is  the 
earliest  manifestation,  and  which  has  borne 
so  amazing  a crop  of  good  art,  owes 
something,  though  not  everything,  to  the 
liberating  and  revolutionary  doctrines  of 
Post-I  m pressionism . 

The  silliest  things  said  about  Post- 
Impressionist  pictures  are  said  by  people 

severely  a young  painter  for  trying  to  give  his  picture  a 
factitious  interest,  or  even  for  trying  to  conceal  beneath 
striking  wrappers  the  essential  mediocrity  of  his  wares  ? 
If  not  heroically  sincere  he  is  surely  not  inhumanly  base. 
Besides,  he  has  to  imitate  someone,  and  he  likes  to  be  in 
the  fashion.  And,  after  all,  a bad  cubist  picture  is  no 
woise  than  any  other  bad  picture.  If  anyone  is  to  be 
blamed,  it  should  be  the  spectator  who  cannot  distinguish 
between  good  cubist  pictures  and  bad.  Blame  alike  the 
fools  who  think  that  because  a picture  is  cubist  it  must 
be  worthless,  and  their  idiotic  enemies  who  think  it  must 
be  marvellous.  People  of  sensibility  can  see  that  there 
is  as  much  difference  between  Picasso  and  a Montmartre 
sensationalist  as  there  is  between  Ingres  and  the  Pre- 
sident of  the  Royal  Academy. 

4 6 


POST-IMPRESSIONISM 


who  regard  Post-Impressionism  as  an  isolated 
movement,  whereas,  in  fact,  it  takes  its 
place  as  part  of  one  of  those  huge  slopes 
into  which  we  can  divide  the  history  of  art 
and  the  spiritual  history  of  mankind.  In 
my  enthusiastic  moments  I am  tempted  to 
hope  that  it  is  the  first  stage  in  a new  slope 
to  which  it  will  stand  in  the  same  relation 
as  sixth-century  Byzantine  art  stands  to  the 
old.  In  that  case  we  shall  compare  Post- 
Impressionism  with  that  vital  spirit  which, 
towards  the  end  of  the  fifth  century,  flickered 
into  life  amidst  the  ruins  of  Graeco-Roman 
realism.  Post-Impressionism,  or,  let  us  say 
the  Contemporary  Movement,  has  a future ; 
but  when  that  future  is  present  Cezanne 
and  Matisse  will  no  longer  be  called  Post- 
Impressionists.  They  will  certainly  be  called 
great  artists,  just  as  Giotto  and  Masaccio 
are  called  great  artists ; they  will  be  called 
the  masters  of  a movement;  but  whether 
that  movement  is  destined  to  be  more  than 
a movement,  to  be  something  as  vast  as  the 
slope  that  lies  between  Cezanne  and  the 
masters  of  S.  Vitale,  is  a matter  of  much  less 
certainty  than  enthusiasts  care  to  suppose. 

Post-Impressionism  is  accused  of  being  a 
negative  and  destructive  creed.  In  art  no 
creed  is  healthy  that  is  anything  else.  You 
47 


ART 


cannot  give  men  genius ; you  can  only  give 
them  freedom — freedom  from  superstition. 
Post-Impressionism  can  no  more  make  good 
artists  than  good  laws  can  make  good  men. 
Doubtless,  with  its  increasing  popularity,  an 
annually  increasing  horde  of  nincompoops 
will  employ  the  so-called  “Post-Impressionist 
technique  ” for  presenting  insignificant  pat- 
terns and  recounting  foolish  anecdotes.  Their 
pictures  will  be  dubbed  “ Post-Impressionist, ” 
but  only  by  gross  injustice  will  they  be 
excluded  from  Burlington  House.  Post- 
Impressionism  is  no  specific  against  human 
folly  and  incompetence.  All  it  can  do  for 
painters  is  to  bring  before  them  the  claims 
of  art.  To  the  man  of  genius  and  to  the 
student  of  talent  it  can  say : “ Don’t  waste 
your  time  and  energy  on  things  that  don’t 
matter : concentrate  on  what  does : concen- 
trate on  the  creation  of  significant  form.” 
Only  thus  can  either  give  the  best  that  is  in 
him.  Formerly  because  both  felt  bound  to 
strike  a compromise  between  art  and  what 
the  public  had  been  taught  to  expect,  the 
work  of  one  was  grievously  disfigured,  that 
of  the  other  ruined.  Tradition  ordered 
the  painter  to  be  photographer,  acrobat, 
archaeologist  and  litterateur  : Post-Impres- 
sionism invites  him  to  become  an  artist. 

48 


Ill 


THE  METAPHYSICAL  HYPOTHESIS 

I 

For  the  present  I have  said  enough  about 
the  aesthetic  problem  and  about  Post-Im- 
pressionism ; I want  now  to  consider  that 
metaphysical  question — “ Why  do  certain 
arrangements  and  combinations  of  form 
move  us  so  strangely  ? ” For  aesthetics  it 
suffices  that  they  do  move  us  ; to  all  further 
inquisition  of  the  tedious  and  stupid  it  can 
be  replied  that,  however  queer  these  things 
may  be,  they  are  no  queerer  than  anything 
else  in  this  incredibly  queer  universe.  But 
to  those  for  whom  my  theory  seems  to  open 
a vista  of  possibilities  I willingly  offer,  for 
what  they  are  worth,  my  fancies. 

It  seems  to  me  possible,  though  by  no 
means  certain,  that  created  form  moves  us 
so  profoundly  because  it  expresses  the  emotion 
of  its  creator.  Perhaps  the  lines  and  colours 
of  a work  of  art  convey  to  us  something 
that  the  artist  felt.  If  this  be  so,  it  will 
49  d 


ART 


explain  that  curious  but  undeniable  fact,  to 
which  I have  already  referred,  that  what  I 
call  material  beauty  (*.£.  the  wing  of  a 
butterfly)  does  not  move  most  of  us  in  at  all 
the  same  way  as  a work,  of  art  moves  us.  It 
is  beautiful  form,  but  it  is  not  significant 
form.  It  moves  us,  but  it  does  not  move  us 
aesthetically.  It  is  tempting  to  explain  the 
difference  between  “ significant  form  ” and 
“ beauty  ” — that  is  to  say,  the  difference 
between  form  that  provokes  our  aesthetic 
emotions  and  form  that  does  not — by  saying 
that  significant  form  conveys  to  us  an 
emotion  felt  by  its  creator  and  that  beauty 
conveys  nothing. 

For  what,  then,  does  the  artist  feel  the 
emotion  that  he  is  supposed  to  express? 
Sometimes  it  certainly  comes  to  him  through 
material  beauty.  The  contemplation  of 
natural  objects  is  often  the  immediate  cause 
of  the  artist’s  emotion.  Are  we  to  suppose, 
then,  that  the  artist  feels,  or  sometimes  feels, 
for  material  beauty  what  we  feel  for  a work 
of  art  ? Can  it  be  that  sometimes  for  the 
artist  material  beauty  is  somehow  significant 
— that  is,  capable  of  provoking  aesthetic 
emotion?  And  if  the  form  that  provokes 
aesthetic  emotion  be  form  that  expresses 
something,  can  it  be  that  material  beauty  is 

5° 


THE  METAPHYSICAL  HYPOTHESIS 


to  him  expressive  ? Does  he  feel  something 
behind  it  as  we  imagine  that  we  feel  some- 
thing behind  the  forms  of  a work  of  art? 
Are  we  to  suppose  that  the  emotion  which 
the  artist  expresses  is  an  aesthetic  emotion 
felt  for  something  the  significance  of  which 
commonly  escapes  our  coarser  sensibilities  ? 
All  these  are  questions  about  which  I had 
sooner  speculate  than  dogmatise. 

Let  us  hear  what  the  artists  have  got  to 
say  for  themselves.  We  readily  believe  them 
when  they  tell  us  that,  in  fact,  they  do  not 
create  works  of  art  in  order  to  provoke  our 
aesthetic  emotions,  but  because  only  thus  can 
they  materialise  a particular  kind  of  feel- 
ing. What,  precisely,  this  feeling  is  they 
find  it  hard  to  say.  One  account  of  the 
matter,  given  me  by  a very  good  artist,  is 
that  what  he  tries  to  express  in  a picture  is 
“a  passionate  apprehension  of  form.”  I 
have  set  myself  to  discover  what  is  meant  by 
“a  passionate  apprehension  of  form,”  and, 
after  much  talking  and  more  listening,  I 
have  arrived  at  the  following  result.  Occa- 
sionally when  an  artist — a real  artist — looks 
at  objects  (the  contents  of  a room,  for 
instance)  he  perceives  them  as  pure  forms 
in  certain  relations  to  each  other,  and  feels 
emotion  for  them  as  such.  These  are  his 


ART 


moments  of  inspiration  : follows  the  desire 
to  express  what  has  been  felt.  The  emotion 
that  the  artist  felt  in  his  moment  of  inspira- 
tion he  did  not  feel  for  objects  seen  as 
means,  but  for  objects  seen  as  pure  forms — 
that  is,  as  ends  in  themselves.  He  did  not 
feel  emotion  for  a chair  as  a means  to 
physical  well-being,  nor  as  an  object  associated 
with  the  intimate  life  of  a family,  nor  as  the 
place  where  someone  sat  saying  things  unfor- 
gettable, nor  yet  as  a thing  bound  to  the 
lives  of  hundreds  of  men  and  women,  dead 
or  alive,  by  a hundred  subtle  ties ; doubtless 
an  artist  does  often  feel  emotions  such  as 
these  for  the  things  that  he  sees,  but  in  the 
moment  of  aesthetic  vision  he  sees  objects, 
not  as  means  shrouded  in  associations,  but 
as  pure  forms.  It  is  for,  or  at  any  rate 
through,  pure  form  that  he  feels  his  inspired 
emotion. 

Now  to  see  objects  as  pure  forms  is  to  see 
them  as  ends  in  themselves.  For  though,  of 
course,  forms  are  related  to  each  other  as 
parts  of  a whole,  they  are  related  on  terms 
of  equality ; they  are  not  a means  to  any- 
thing except  emotion.  But  for  objects  seen 
as  ends  in  themselves,  do  we  not  feel  a pro- 
founder and  a more  thrilling  emotion  than 
ever  we  felt  for  them  as  means  ? All  of  us, 

52 


THE  METAPHYSICAL  HYPOTHESIS 


I imagine,  do,  from  time  to  time,  get  a vision 
of  material  objects  as  pure  forms.  We  see 
things  as  ends  in  themselves,  that  is  to  say ; 
and  at  such  moments  it  seems  possible,  and 
even  probable,  that  we  see  them  with  the 
eye  of  an  artist.  Who  has  not,  once  at  least 
in  his  life,  had  a sudden  vision  of  landscape 
as  pure  form  ? For  once,  instead  of  seeing 
it  as  fields  and  cottages,  he  has  felt  it  as  lines 
and  colours.  In  that  moment  has  he  not 
won  from  material  beauty  a thrill  indistin- 
guishable from  that  which  art  gives  ? And, 
if  this  be  so,  is  it  not  clear  that  he  has  won 
from  material  beauty  the  thrill  that,  gene- 
rally, art  alone  can  give,  because  he  has  con- 
trived to  see  it  as  a pure  formal  combination 
of  lines  and  colours  ? May  we  go  on  to  say 
that,  having  seen  it  as  pure  form,  having 
freed  it  from  all  casual  and  adventitious  in- 
terest, from  all  that  it  may  have  acquired 
from  its  commerce  with  human  beings,  from 
all  its  significance  as  a means,  he  has  felt  its 
significance  as  an  end  in  itself? 

What  is  the  significance  of  anything  as  an 
end  in  itself?  What  is  that  which  is  left 
when  we  have  stripped  a thing  of  all  its 
associations,  of  all  its  significance  as  a means  ? 
What  is  left  to  provoke  our  emotion  ? What 
but  that  which  philosophers  used  to  call  “ the 

53 


ART 


thing  in  itself”  and  now  call  “ultimate 
reality  ” ? Shall  I be  altogether  fantastic 
in  suggesting,  what  some  of  the  profoundest 
thinkers  have  believed,  that  the  significance 
of  the  thing  in  itself  is  the  significance  of 
Reality  ? Is  it  possible  that  the  answer  to 
my  question,  “ Why  are  we  so  profoundly 
moved  by  certain  combinations  of  lines  and 
colours  ? ” should  be,  “ Because  artists  can 
express  in  combinations  of  lines  and  colours 
an  emotion  felt  for  reality  which  reveals 
itself  through  line  and  colour  ” ? 

If  this  suggestion  were  accepted  it  would 
follow  that  “ significant  form  ” was  form 
behind  which  we  catch  a sense  of  ultimate 
reality.  There  would  be  good  reason  for 
supposing  that  the  emotions  which  artists 
feel  in  their  moments  of  inspiration,  that 
others  feel  in  the  rare  moments  when  they 
see  objects  artistically,  and  that  many  of  us 
feel  when  we  contemplate  works  of  art,  are 
the  same  in  kind.  All  would  be  emotions 
felt  for  reality  revealing  itself  through  pure 
form.  It  is  certain  that  this  emotion  can  be 
expressed  only  in  pure  form.  It  is  certain 
that  most  of  us  can  come  at  it  only  through 
pure  form.  But  is  pure  form  the  only 
channel  through  which  anyone  can  come  at 
this  mysterious  emotion  ? That  is  a dis- 
54 


THE  METAPHYSICAL  HYPOTHESIS 


turbing  and  a most  distasteful  question,  for 
at  this  point  I thought  I saw  my  way  to  can- 
celling out  the  word  “reality,”  and  saying 
that  all  are  emotions  felt  for  pure  form 
which  may  or  may  not  have  something  be- 
hind it.  To  me  it  would  be  most  satisfactory 
to  say  that  the  reason  why  some  forms  move 
us  aesthetically,  and  others  do  not,  is  that 
some  have  been  so  purified  that  we  can  feel 
them  aesthetically  and  that  others  are  so 
clogged  with  unaesthetic  matter  (e.g.  associa- 
tions) that  only  the  sensibility  of  an  artist 
can  perceive  their  pure,  formal  significance. 
I should  be  charmed  to  believe  that  it  is  as 
certain  that  everyone  must  come  at  reality 
through  form  as  that  everyone  must  express 
his  sense  of  it  in  form.  But  is  that  so  ? 
What  kind  of  form  is  that  from  which  the 
musician  draws  the  emotion  that  he  expresses 
in  abstract  harmonies?  Whence  come  the 
emotions  of  the  architect  and  the  potter  ? 
I know  that  the  artist’s  emotion  can  be  ex- 
pressed only  in  form  ; I know  that  only  by 
form  can  my  aesthetic  emotions  be  called 
into  play ; but  can  I be  sure  that  it  is  always 
by  form  that  an  artist’s  emotion  is  provoked  ? 
Back  to  reality. 

Those  who  incline  to  believe  that  the 
artist’s  emotion  is  felt  for  reality  will  readily 

55 


ART 


admit  that  visual  artists — with  whom  alone 
we  are  concerned — come  at  reality  generally 
through  material  form.  But  don’t  they 
come  at  it  sometimes  through  imagined 
form  ? And  ought  we  not  to  add  that 
sometimes  the  sense  of  reality  comes  we 
know  not  whence  ? The  best  account  I 
know  of  this  state  of  being  rapt  in  a 
mysterious  sense  of  reality  is  the  one  that 
Dante  gives : 

“ O immaginativa,  che  ne  rube 

tal  volta  si  di  fuor,  ch’  uom  non  s’accorge 
perch£  d’intorno  suonin  mille  tube  ; 

chi  move  te,  se  il  senso  non  ti  porge  ? 

Moved  lume,  che  nel  ciel  s’informa, 
per  s6,  o per  voler  che  giu  lo  scorge. 

e qui  fu  la  mia  mente  si  ristretta 
dentro  da  s£,  che  di  fuor  non  venia 
cosa  che  fosse  allor  da  lei  recetta.” 

Certainly,  in  those  moments  of  exaltation 
that  art  can  give,  it  is  easy  to  believe  that  we 
have  been  possessed  by  an  emotion  that 
comes  from  the  world  of  reality.  Those 
who  take  this  view  will  have  to  say  that 
there  is  in  all  things  the  stuff  out  of  which 
art  is  made- — reality ; artists,  even,  can 

56 


THE  METAPHYSICAL  HYPOTHESIS 


grasp  it  only  when  they  have  reduced  things 
to  their  purest  condition  of  being — to  pure 
form — unless  they  be  of  those  who  come  at 
it  mysteriously  unaided  by  externals  ; only  in 
pure  form  can  a sense  of  it  be  expressed. 
On  this  hypothesis  the  peculiarity  of  the 
artist  would  seem  to  be  that  he  possesses  the 
power  of  surely  and  frequently  seizing  reality 
(generally  behind  pure  form),  and  the  power 
of  expressing  his  sense  of  it,  in  pure  form 
always.  But  many  people,  though  they 
feel  the  tremendous  significance  of  form, 
feel  also  a cautious  dislike  for  big  words ; 
and  “ reality  ” is  a very  big  one.  These  pre- 
fer to  say  that  what  the  artist  surprises  behind 
form,  or  seizes  by  sheer  force  of  imagination, 
is  the  all-pervading  rhythm  that  informs  all 
things;  and  I have  said  that  I will  never 
quarrel  with  that  blessed  word  “ rhythm.” 
The  ultimate  object  of  the  artist’s 
emotion  will  remain  for  ever  uncertain. 
But,  unless  we  assume  that  all  artists  are 
liars,  I think  we  must  suppose  that  they  do 
feel  an  emotion  which  they  can  express  in 
form — and  form  alone.  And  note  well  this 
further  point ; artists  try  to  express  emotion, 
not  to  make  statements  about  its  ultimate  oi 
immediate  object.  Naturally,  if  an  artist’s 
emotion  comes  to  him  from,  or  through, 
57 


ART 

the  perception  of  forms  and  formal  relations, 
he  will  be  apt  to  express  it  in  forms  derived 
from  those  through  which  it  came  ; but  he 
will  not  be  bound  by  his  vision.  He  will  be 
bound  by  his  emotion.  Not  what  he  saw,  but 
only  what  he  felt  will  necessarily  condition  his 
design.  Whether  the  connection  between 
the  forms  of  a created  work  and  the  forms 
of  the  visible  universe  be  patent  or  obscure, 
whether  it  exist  or  whether  it  does  not,  is  a 
matter  of  no  consequence  whatever.  No 
one  ever  doubted  that  a Sung  pot  or 
a Romanesque  church  was  as  much  an 
expression  of  emotion  as  any  picture  that 
ever  was  painted.  What  was  the  object  of 
the  potter’s  emotion  ? What  of  the  builder’s  ? 
Was  it  some  imagined  form,  the  synthesis  of 
a hundred  different  visions  of  natural  things ; 
or  was  it  some  conception  of  reality,  un- 
related to  sensual  experience,  remote  al- 
together from  the  physical  universe  ? These 
are  questions  beyond  all  conjecture.  In  any 
case,  the  form  in  which  he  expresses  his 
emotion  bears  no  memorial  of  any  external 
form  that  may  have  provoked  it.  Expres- 
sion is  no  wise  bound  by  the  forms  or 
emotions  or  ideas  of  life.  We  cannot  know 
exactly  what  the  artist  feels.  We  only  know 
what  he  creates.  If  reality  be  the  goal  of  his 
58 


THE  METAPHYSICAL  HYPOTHESIS 


emotion,  the  roads  to  reality  are  several.  Some 
artists  come  at  it  through  the  appearance  of 
things,  some  by  a recollection  of  appearance, 
and  some  by  sheer  force  of  imagination. 

To  the  question — “Why  are  we  so  pro- 
foundly moved  by  certain  combinations  of 
forms  ? ” I am  unwilling  to  return  a posi- 
tive answer.  I am  not  obliged  to,  for  it  is 
not  an  aesthetic  question.  I do  suggest, 
however,  that  it  is  because  they  express  an 
emotion  that  the  artist  has  felt,  though 
I hesitate  to  make  any  pronouncement 
about  the  nature  or  object  of  that  emotion. 
If  my  suggestion  be  accepted,  criticism 
will  be  armed  with  a new  weapon ; and 
the  nature  of  this  weapon  is  worth  a 
moment’s  consideration.  Going  behind  his 
emotion  and  its  object,  the  critic  will  be  able 
to  surprise  that  which  gives  form  its  signi- 
ficance. He  will  be  able  to  explain  why 
some  forms  are  significant  and  some  are  not ; 
and  thus  he  will  be  able  to  push  all  his 
judgments  a step  further  back.  Let  me  give 
one  example.  Of  copies  of  pictures  there 
are  two  classes ; one  class  contains  some 
works  of  art,  the  other  none.  A literal  copy 
is  seldom  reckoned  even  by  its  owner  a work 
of  art.  It  leaves  us  cold ; its  forms  are 
not  significant.  Yet  if  it  were  an  absolutely 

59 


ART 


exact  copy,  clearly  it  would  be  as  moving  as 
the  original,  and  a photographic  reproduc- 
tion of  a drawing  often  is — almost.  Evi- 
dently, it  is  impossible  to  imitate  a work  of 
art  exactly;  and  the  differences  between  the 
copy  and  the  original,  minute  though  they 
may  be,  exist  and  are  felt  immediately.  So 
far  the  critic  is  on  sure  and  by  this  time 
familiar  ground.  The  copy  does  not  move 
him,  because  its  forms  are  not  identical  with 
those  of  the  original ; and  just  what  made 
the  original  moving  is  what  does  not  appear 
in  the  copy.  But  why  is  it  impossible  to 
make  an  absolutely  exact  copy?  The  ex- 
planation seems  to  be  that  the  actual  lines 
and  colours  and  spaces  in  a work  of  art  are 
caused  by  something  in  the  mind  of  the 
artist  which  is  not  present  in  the  mind  of 
the  imitator.  The  hand  not  only  obeys  the 
mind,  it  is  impotent  to  make  lines  and 
colours  in  a particular  way  without  the 
direction  of  a particular  state  of  mind. 
The  two  visible  objects,  the  original  and 
the  copy,  differ  because  that  which  ordered 
the  work  of  art  does  not  preside  at  the 
manufacture  of  the  copy.  That  which 
orders  the  work  of  art  is,  I suggest,  the 
emotion  which  empowers  artists  to  create 
significant  form.  The  good  copy,  the  copy 
60 


THE  METAPHYSICAL  HYPOTHESIS 


that  moves  us,  is  always  the  work  of  one 
who  is  possessed  by  this  mysterious  emotion. 
Good  copies  are  never  attempts  at  exact 
imitation ; on  examination  we  find  always 
enormous  differences  between  them  and  their 
originals : they  are  the  work  of  men  or 
women  who  do  not  copy  but  can  translate 
the  art  of  others  into  their  own  language. 
The  power  of  creating  significant  form 
depends,  not  on  hawklike  vision,  but  on 
some  curious  mental  and  emotional  power. 
Even  to  copy  a picture  one  needs,  not  to 
see  as  a trained  observer,  but  to  feel  as  an 
artist.  To  make  the  spectator  feel,  it  seems 
that  the  creator  must  feel  too.  What  is  this 
that  imitated  forms  lack  and  created  forms 
possess  ? What  is  this  mysterious  thing  that 
dominates  the  artist  in  the  creation  of  forms  ? 
What  is  it  that  lurks  behind  forms  and  seems 
to  be  conveyed  by  them  to  us  ? What  is  it 
that  distinguishes  the  creator  from  the  copy- 
ist ? What  can  it  be  but  emotion  ? Is  it  not 
because  the  artist’s  forms  express  a particu- 
lar kind  of  emotion  that  they  are  significant  ? 
— because  they  fit  and  envelop  it,  that  they 
are  coherent  ? — because  they  communicate  it, 
that  they  exalt  us  to  ecstasy  ? 

One  word  of  warning  is  necessary.  Let 


ART 


is  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  a work  of 
art.  The  characteristic  of  a work  of  art  is 
its  power  of  provoking  aesthetic  emotion  ; 
the  expression  of  emotion  is  possibly  what 
gives  it  that  power.  It  is  useless  to  go  to  a 
picture  gallery  in  search  of  expression  ; you 
must  go  in  search  of  significant  form.  When 
you  have  been  moved  by  form,  you  may  begin 
to  consider  what  makes  it  moving.  If  my 
theory  be  correct,  rightness  of  form  is  in- 
variably a consequence  of  rightness  of  emotion. 
Right  form,  I suggest,  is  ordered  and  condi- 
tioned by  a particular  kind  of  emotion  ; but 
whether  my  theory  be  true  or  false,  the  form 
remains  right.  If  the  forms  are  satisfactory, 
the  state  of  mind  that  ordained  them  must 
have  been  aesthetically  right.  If  the  forms 
are  wrong,  it  does  not  follow  that  the  state  of 
mind  was  wrong ; between  the  moment  of 
inspiration  and  the  finished  work  of  art  there 
is  room  for  many  a slip.  Feeble  or  defective 
emotion  is  at  best  only  one  explanation  of 
unsatisfactory  form.  Therefore,  when  the 
critic  comes  across  satisfactory  form  he  need 
not  bother  about  the  feelings  of  the  artist; 
for  him  to  feel  the  aesthetic  significance  of 
the  artist’s  forms  suffices.  If  the  artist’s  state 
of  mind  be  important,  he  may  be  sure  that 
it  was  right  because  the  forms  are  right.  But 
62 


THE  METAPHYSICAL  HYPOTHESIS 


when  the  critic  attempts  to  account  for  the 
unsatisfactoriness  of  forms  he  may  consider 
the  state  of  mind  of  the  artist.  He  cannot 
be  sure  that  because  the  forms  are  wrong  the 
state  of  mind  was  wrong  ; because  right  forms 
imply  right  feeling,  wrong  forms  do  not 
necessarily  imply  wrong  feeling ; but  if  he 
has  got  to  explain  the  wrongness  of  form, 
here  is  a possibility  he  cannot  overlook.  He 
will  have  left  the  firm  land  of  aesthetics  to 
travel  in  an  unstable  element ; in  criticism 
one  catches  at  any  straw.  There  is  no 
harm  in  that,  provided  the  critic  never  forgets 
that,  whatever  ingenious  theories  he  may  put 
forward,  they  can  be  nothing  more  than  at- 
tempts to  explain  the  one  central  fact — that 
some  forms  move  us  aesthetically  and  others 
do  not. 

This  discussion  has  brought  me  close  to 
a question  that  is  neither  aesthetic  nor  meta- 
physical but  impinges  on  both.  It  is  the 
question  of  the  artistic  problem,  and  it  is  really 
a technical  question.  I have  suggested  that 
the  task  of  the  artist  is  either  to  create 
significant  form  or  to  express  a sense  of 
reality — whichever  way  you  prefer  to  put  it. 
But  it  is  certain  that  few  artists,  if  any,  can 
sit  down  or  stand  up  just  to  create  nothing 
more  definite  than  significant  form,  just  to 

63 


ART 


express  nothing  more  definite  than  a sense  of 
reality.  Artists  must  canalise  their  emotion, 
they  must  concentrate  their  energies  on  some 
definite  problem.  The  man  who  sets  out 
with  the  whole  world  before  him  is  unlikely 
to  get  anywhere.  In  that  fact  lies  the  ex- 
planation of  the  absolute  necessity  for  artistic 
conventions.  That  is  why  it  is  easier  to  write 
good  verse  than  good  prose,  why  it  is  more 
difficult  to  write  good  blank  verse  than  good 
rhyming  couplets.  That  is  the  explanation 
of  the  sonnet,  the  ballade,  and  the  rondeau ; 
severe  limitations  concentrate  and  intensify 
the  artist’s  energies. 

It  would  be  almost  impossible  for  an  artist 
who  set  himself  a task  no  more  definite  than 
that  of  creating,  without  conditions  or  limita- 
tions material  or  intellectual,  significant  form 
ever  so  to  concentrate  his  energies  as  to 
achieve  his  object.  His  objective  would  lack 
precision  and  therefore  his  efforts  would  lack 
intention.  He  would  almost  certainly  be 
vague  and  listless  at  his  work.  It  would 
seem  always  possible  to  pull  the  thing  round 
by  a happy  fluke,  it  would  rarely  be  absolutely 
clear  that  things  were  going  wrong.  The 
effort  would  be  feeble  and  the  result  would 
be  feeble.  That  is  the  danger  of  aestheticism 
for  the  artist.  The  man  who  feels  that  he 
64 


THE  METAPHYSICAL  HYPOTHESIS 


has  got  nothing  to  do  but  to  make  something 
beautiful  hardly  knows  where  to  begin  or 
where  to  end,  or  why  he  should  set  about 
one  thing  more  than  another.  The  artist 
has  got  to  feel  the  necessity  of  making  his 
work  of  art  “ right.”  It  will  be  “ right  ” 
when  it  expresses  his  emotion  for  reality  or 
is  capable  of  provoking  aesthetic  emotion  in 
others,  whichever  way  you  care  to  look  at  it. 
But  most  artists  have  got  to  canalise  their 
emotion  and  concentrate  their  energies  on 
some  more  definite  and  more  maniable  pro- 
blem than  that  of  making  something  that 
shall  be  aesthetically  “ right.”  They  need  a 
problem  that  will  become  the  focus  of  their 
vast  emotions  and  vague  energies,  and  when 
that  problem  is  solved  their  work  will  be 
“ right.” 

“ Right  ” for  the  spectator  means  aesthet- 
ically satisfying;  for  the  artist  at  work  it 
means  the  complete  realisation  of  a concep- 
tion, the  perfect  solution  of  a problem.  The 
mistake  that  the  vulgar  make  is  to  suppose 
that  “right”  means  the  solution  of  one 
particular  problem.  The  vulgar  are  apt  to 
suppose  that  the  problem  which  all  visual 
and  literary  artists  set  themselves  is  to  make 
something  lifelike.  Now,  all  artistic  problems 
— and  their  possible  variety  is  infinite — must 
65  E 


ART 


be  the  foci  of  one  particular  kind  of  emotion, 
that  specific  artistic  emotion  which  I believe 
to  be  an  emotion  felt  for  reality,  generally 
perceived  through  form : but  the  nature  of 
the  focus  is  immaterial.  It  is  almost,  though 
not  quite,  true  to  say  that  one  problem  is 
as  good  as  another.  Indeed  all  problems 
are,  in  themselves,  equally  good,  though, 
owing  to  human  infirmity,  there  are  two 
which  tend  to  turn  out  badly.  One,  as 
we  have  seen,  is  the  pure  aesthetic  pro- 
blem ; the  other  is  the  problem  of  accurate 
representation. 

The  vulgar  imagine  that  there  is  but  one 
focus,  that  “ right  ” means  always  the 
realisation  of  an  accurate  conception  of  life. 
They  cannot  understand  that  the  immediate 
problem  of  the  artist  may  be  to  express 
himself  within  a square  or  a circle  or  a cube, 
to  balance  certain  harmonies,  to  reconcile  cer- 
tain dissonances,  to  achieve  certain  rhythms, 
or  to  conquer  certain  difficulties  of  medium, 
just  as  well  as  to  catch  a likeness.  This 
error  is  at  the  root  of  the  silly  criticism  that 
Mr.  Shaw  has  made  it  fashionable  to  print. 
In  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  there  are  details 
of  psychology  and  portraiture  so  realistic  as  to 
astonish  and  enchant  the  multitude,  but  the 
conception,  the  thing  that  Shakespeare  set 
66 


THE  METAPHYSICAL  HYPOTHESIS 


himself  to  realise,  was  not  a faithful  pre- 
sentation of  life.  The  creation  of  Illusion 
was  not  the  artistic  problem  that  Shakespeare 
used  as  a channel  for  his  artistic  emotion 
and  a focus  for  his  energies.  The  world  of 
Shakespeare’s  plays  is  by  no  means  so  life- 
like as  the  world  of  Mr.  Galsworthy’s,  and 
therefore  those  who  imagine  that  the  artistic 
problem  must  always  be  the  achieving  of  a 
correspondence  between  printed  words  or 
painted  forms  and  the  world  as  they  know  it 
are  right  in  judging  the  plays  of  Shakespeare 
inferior  to  those  of  Mr.  Galsworthy.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  achievement  of  verisimi- 
litude, far  from  being  the  only  possible 
problem,  disputes  with  the  achievement  of 
beauty  the  honour  of  being  the  worst  pos- 
sible. It  is  so  easy  to  be  lifelike,  that  an 
attempt  to  be  nothing  more  will  never 
bring  into  play  the  highest  emotional  and 
intellectual  powers  of  the  artist.  Just 
as  the  aesthetic  problem  is  too  vague, 
so  the  representative  problem  is  too 
simple. 

Every  artist  must  choose  his  own  problem. 
He  may  take  it  from  wherever  he  likes, 
provided  he  can  make  it  the  focus  of  those 
artistic  emotions  he  has  got  to  express  and 


ART 


to  express  them.  What  we  have  got  to 
remember  is  that  the  problem — in  a picture 
it  is  generally  the  subject — is  of  no  conse- 
quence in  itself.  It  is  merely  one  of  the 
artist’s  means  of  expression  or  creation. 
In  any  particular  case  one  problem  may  be 
better  than  another,  as  a means,  just  as 
one  canvas  or  one  brand  of  colours  may  be ; 
that  will  depend  upon  the  temperament  of 
the  artist,  and  we  may  leave  it  to  him.  For 
us  the  problem  has  no  value  ; for  the  artist 
it  is  the  working  test  of  absolute  “rightness.” 
It  is  the  gauge  that  measures  the  pressure 
of  steam  ; the  artist  stokes  his  fires  to  set 
the  little  handle  spinning ; he  knows  that 
his  machine  will  not  move  until  he  has  got 
his  pointer  to  the  mark ; he  works  up  to  it 
and  through  it ; but  it  does  not  drive  the 
engine. 

What,  then,  is  the  conclusion  of  the 
whole  matter?  No  more  than  this,  I think. 
The  contemplation  of  pure  form  leads  to  a 
state  of  extraordinary  exaltation  and  com- 
plete detachment  from  the  concerns  of  life  : 
of  so  much,  speaking  for  myself,  I am  sure. 
It  is  tempting  to  suppose  that  the  emotion 
which  exalts  has  been  transmitted  through 
the  forms  we  contemplate  by  the  artist  who 
created  them.  If  this  be  so,  the  transmitted 
68 


* 


THE  METAPHYSICAL  HYPOTHESIS 

emotion,  whatever  it  may  be,  must  be  of 
such  a kind  that  it  can  be  expressed  in  any 
sort  of  form — in  pictures,  sculptures,  build- 
ings, pots,  textiles,  &c.,  &c.  Now  the 
emotion  that  artists  express  comes  to  some 
of  them,  so  they  tell  us,  from  the  appre- 
hension of  the  formal  significance  of  material 
things ; and  the  formal  significance  of  any 
material  thing  is  the  significance  of  that 
thing  considered  as  an  end  in  itself.  But 
if  an  object  considered  as  an  end  in  itself 
moves  us  more  profoundly  (/.<?.  has  greater 
significance)  than  the  same  object  considered 
as  a means  to  practical  ends  or  as  a thing 
related  to  human  interests — and  this  un- 
doubtedly is  the  case — we  can  only  suppose 
that  when  we  consider  anything  as  an  end 
in  itself  we  become  aware  of  that  in  it  which 
is  of  greater  moment  than  any  qualities  it 
may  have  acquired  from  keeping  company 
with  human  beings.  Instead  of  recognising 
its  accidental  and  conditioned  importance,  we 
become  aware  of  its  essential  reality,  of  the 
God  in  everything,  of  the  universal  in  the 
particular,  of  the  all-pervading  rhythm.  Call 
it  by  what  name  you  will,  the  thing  that  I 
am  talking  about  is  that  which  lies  behind 
the  appearance  of  all  things — that  which 
gives  to  all  things  their  individual  signific- 


ART 


ance,  the  thing  in  itself,  the  ultimate 
reality.  And  if  a more  or  less  unconscious 
apprehension  of  this  latent  reality  of  material 
things  be,  indeed,  the  cause  of  that  strange 
emotion,  a passion  to  express  which  is  the 
inspiration  of  many  artists,  it  seems  reason- 
able to  suppose  that  those  who,  unaided  by 
material  objects,  experience  the  same  emotion 
have  come  by  another  road  to  the  same 
country. 

That  is  the  metaphysical  hypothesis.  Are 
we  to  swallow  it  whole,  accept  a part  of  it, 
or  reject  it  altogether  ? Each  must  decide 
for  himself.  I insist  only  on  the  rightness 
of  my  aesthetic  hypothesis.  And  of  one 
other  thing  am  I sure.  Be  they  artists  or 
lovers  of  art,  mystics  or  mathematicians, 
those  who  achieve  ecstasy  are  those  who 
have  freed  themselves  from  the  arrogance  of 
humanity.  He  who  would  feel  the  signi- 
ficance of  art  must  make  himself  humble 
before  it.  Those  who  find  the  chief  im- 
portance of  art  or  of  philosophy  in  its 
relation  to  conduct  or  its  practical  utility — l 
those  who  cannot  value  things  as  ends  in 
themselves  or,  at  any  rate,  as  direct  means 
to  emotion — will  never  get  from  anything 
the  best  that  it  can  give.  Whatever  the 
world  of  aesthetic  contemplation  may  be, 
70 


THE  METAPHYSICAL  HYPOTHESIS 


it  is  not  the  world  of  human  business  and 
passion ; in  it  the  chatter  and  tumult  of 
material  existence  is  unheard,  or  heard 
only  as  the  echo  of  some  more  ultimate 
harmony. 


71 


1 


II 

ART  AND  LIFE 

I.  Art  and  Religion 
II.  Art  and  History 
III.  Art  and  Ethics 


} 


EARLY  PERUVIAN  POT 
FROM  THE  NASCA  VALLEY 
1 7i  the  British  Museum 


I 

ART  AND  RELIGION 

If  in  my  first  chapter  I had  been  at  pains  to 
show  that  art  owed  nothing  to  life  the  title 
of  my  second  would  invite  a charge  of  incon- 
sistency. The  danger  would  be  slight,  how- 
ever ; for  though  art  owed  nothing  to  life, 
life  might  well  owe  something  to  art.  The 
weather  is  admirably  independent  of  human 
hopes  and  fears,  yet  few  of  us  are  so  sub- 
limely detached  as  to  be  indifferent  to  the 
weather.  Art  does  affect  the  lives  of  men  ; 
it  moves  to  ecstasy,  thus  giving  colour  and 
moment  to  what  might  be  otherwise  a rather 
grey  and  trivial  affair.  Art  for  some  makes 
life  worth  living.  Also,  art  is  affected  by 
life ; for  to  create  art  there  must  be  men 
with  hands  and  a sense  of  form  and  colour 
and  three-dimensional  space  and  the  power 
to  feel  and  the  passion  to  create.  There- 
fore art  has  a great  deal  to  do  with  life — 

75 


ART 


with  emotional  life.  That  it  is  a means  to 
a state  of  exaltation  is  unanimously  agreed, 
and  that  it  comes  from  the  spiritual  depths 
of  man’s  nature  is  hardly  contested.  The 
appreciation  of  art  is  certainly  a means  to 
ecstasy,  and  the  creation  probably  the  expres- 
sion of  an  ecstatic  state  of  mind.  Art  is,  in 
fact,  a necessity  to  and  a product  of  the 
spiritual  life. 

Those  who  do  not  part  company  with  me 
till  the  last  stage  of  my  metaphysical  excur- 
sion agree  that  the  emotion  expressed  in  a 
work  of  art  springs  from  the  depths  of  man’s 
spiritual  nature ; and  those  even  who  will 
hear  nothing  of  expression  agree  that  the 
spiritual  part  is  profoundly  affected  by  works 
of  art.  Art,  therefore,  has  to  do  with  the 
spiritual  life,  to  which  it  gives  and  from 
which,  I feel  sure,  it  takes.  Indirectly,  art 
has  something  to  do  with  practical  life,  too ; 
for  those  emotional  experiences  must  be 
very  faint  and  contemptible  that  leave  quite 
untouched  our  characters.  Through  its 
influence  on  character  and  point  of  view 
art  may  affect  practical  life.  But  practical 
life  and  human  sentiment  can  affect  art  only 
in  so  far  as  they  can  affect  the  conditions  in 
which  artists  work.  Thus  they  may  affect 
the  production  of  works  of  art  to  some 


ART  AND  RELIGION 


extent ; to  how  great  an  extent  I shall 
consider  in  another  place. 

Also  a great  many  works  of  visual  art 
are  concerned  with  life,  or  rather  with  the 
physical  universe  of  which  life  is  a part,  in 
that  the  men  who  created  them  were  thrown 
into  the  creative  mood  by  their  surround- 
ings. We  have  observed,  as  we  could 
hardly  fail  to  do,  that,  whatever  the  emotion 
that  artists  express  may  be,  it  comes  to 
many  of  them  through  the  contemplation 
of  the  familiar  objects  of  life.  The  object 
of  an  artist’s  emotion  seems  to  be  more 
often  than  not  either  some  particular  scene 
or  object,  or  a synthesis  of  his  whole  visual 
experience.  Art  may  be  concerned  with 
the  physical  universe,  or  with  any  part 
or  parts  of  it,  as  a means  to  emotion — a 
means  to  that  peculiar  spiritual  state  that 
we  call  inspiration.  But  the  value  of  these 
parts  as  means  to  anything  but  emotion  art 
ignores — that  is  to  say,  it  ignores  their 
practical  utility.  Artists  are  often  concerned 
with  things,  but  never  with  the  labels  on 
things.  These  useful  labels  were  invented 
by  practical  people  for  practical  purposes. 
The  misfortune  is  that,  having  acquired  the 
habit  of  recognising  labels,  practical  people 
tend  to  lose  the  power  of  feeling  emotion  ; 

77 


ART 


and,  as  the  only  way  of  getting  at  the  thing 
in  itself  is  by  feeling  its  emotional  signific- 
ance, they  soon  begin  to  lose  their  sense 
of  reality.  Mr.  Roger  Fry  has  pointed  out 
that  few  can  hope  ever  to  see  a charging 
bull  as  an  end  in  itself  and  yield  themselves 
to  the  emotional  significance  of  its  forms, 
because  no  sooner  is  the  label  “ Charging 
Bull  ” recognised  than  we  begin  to  dispose 
ourselves  for  flight  rather  than  contempla- 
tion.1 This  is  where  the  habit  of  recog- 
nising labels  serves  us  well.  It  serves  us 
ill,  however,  when,  although  there  is  no  call 
for  action  or  hurry,  it  comes  between  things 
and  our  emotional  reaction  to  them.  The 
label  is  nothing  but  a symbol  that  epitomises 
for  busy  humanity  the  significance  of  things 
regarded  as  “ means.”  A practical  person 
goes  into  a room  where  there  are  chairs, 
tables,  sofas,  a hearth-rug  and  a mantel- 
piece. Of  each  he  takes  note  intellectually, 
and  if  he  wants  to  set  himself  down  or  set 
down  a cup,  he  will  know  all  he  needs  to 
know  for  his  purpose.  The  label  tells  him 
just  those  facts  that  serve  his  practical  ends; 
of  the  thing  itself  that  lurks  behind  the  label 
nothing  is  said.  Artists,  qua  artists,  are  not 

1 “An  Essay  in  Aesthetics,”  by  Roger  Fry  : The  New 
Quarterly , No.  6,  vol.  ii. 

78 


ART  AND  RELIGION 


concerned  with  labels.  They  are  concerned 
with  things  only  as  means  to  a particular 
kind  of  emotion,  which  is  the  same  as  saying 
that  they  are  only  concerned  with  things 
perceived  as  ends  in  themselves ; for  it  is 
only  when  things  are  perceived  as  ends  that 
they  become  means  to  this  emotion.  It  is 
only  when  we  cease  to  regard  the  objects 
in  a landscape  as  means  to  anything  that 
we  can  feel  the  landscape  artistically.  But 
when  we  do  succeed  in  regarding  the  parts 
of  a landscape  as  ends  in  themselves — as 
pure  forms,  that  is  to  say — the  landscape 
becomes  ipso  facto  a means  to  a peculiar, 
aesthetic  state  of  mind.  Artists  are  con- 
cerned only  with  this  peculiar  emotional 
significance  of  the  physical  universe  : because 
they  perceive  things  as  “ ends,”  things  become 
for  them  “ means  ” to  ecstasy. 

The  habit  of  recognising  the  label  and 
overlooking  the  thing,  of  seeing  intellectu- 
ally instead  of  seeing  emotionally,  accounts 
for  the  amazing  blindness,  or  rather  visual 
shallowness,  of  most  civilised  adults.  We 
do  not  forget  what  has  moved  us,  but  what 
we  have  merely  recognised  leaves  no  deep 
impression  on  the  mind.  A friend  of  mine, 
a man  of  taste,  desired  to  make  some 
clearance  in  his  gardens,  encumbered  as  they 
79 


ART 


were  with  a multitude  of  trees ; unfor- 
tunately most  of  his  friends  and  all  his 
family  objected  on  sentimental  or  aesthetic 
grounds,  declaring  that  the  place  would 
never  be  the  same  to  them  if  the  axe  were 
laid  to  a single  trunk.  My  friend  was  in 
despair,  until,  one  day,  I suggested  to  him 
that  whenever  his  people  were  all  away  on 
visits  or  travels,  as  was  pretty  often  the  case, 
he  should  have  as  many  trees  cut  down 
as  could  be  completely  and  cleanly  removed 
during  their  absence.  Since  then,  several 
hundreds  have  been  carted  from  his  small 
park  and  pleasure  grounds,  and  should  the 
secret  be  betrayed  to  the  family  I am  cheer- 
fully confident  that  not  one  of  them  would 
believe  it.  I could  cite  innumerable  in- 
stances of  this  insensibility  to  form.  How 
often  have  I been  one  of  a party  in  a room 
with  which  all  were  familiar,  the  decoration 
of  which  had  lately  been  changed,  and  I 
the  only  one  to  notice  it.  For  practical 
purposes  the  room  remained  unaltered ; 
only  its  emotional  significance  was  new 
Question  your  friend  as  to  the  disposition 
of  the  furniture  in  his  wife’s  drawing-room ; 
ask  him  to  sketch  the  street  down  which 
he  passes  daily ; ten  to  one  he  goes  hope- 
lessly astray.  Only  artists  and  educated 
80 


ART  AND  RELIGION 

people  of  extraordinary  sensibility  and  some 
savages  and  children  feel  the  significance 
of  form  so  acutely  that  they  know  how 
things  look.  These  see,  because  they  see 
emotionally ; and  no  one  forgets  the  things 
that  have  moved  him.  Those  forget  who 
have  never  felt  the  emotional  significance 
of  pure  form  ; they  are  not  stupid  nor  are 
they  generally  insensitive,  but  they  use  their 
eyes  only  to  collect  information,  not  to 
capture  emotion.  This  habit  of  using  the 
eyes  exclusively  to  pick  up  facts  is  the 
barrier  that  stands  between  most  people 
and  an  understanding  of  visual  art.  It  is 
not  a barrier  that  has  stood  unbreached 
always,  nor  need  it  stand  so  for  all  future 
time. 

In  ages  of  great  spiritual  exaltation  the 
barrier  crumbles  and  becomes,  in  places, 
less  insuperable.  Such  ages  are  commonly 
called  great  religious  ages  : nor  is  the  name 
ill-chosen.  For,  more  often  than  not,  re- 
ligion is  the  whetstone  on  which  men 
sharpen  the  spiritual  sense.  Religion,  like 
art,  is  concerned  with  the  world  of  emo- 
tional reality,  and  with  material  things  only 
in  so  far  as  they  are  emotionally  significant. 
For  the  mystic,  as  for  the  artist,  the  physical 
universe  is  a means  to  ecstasy.  The  mystic 

8 1 F 


ART 


feels  things  as  “ends”  instead  of  seeing 
them  as  “ means.”  He  seeks  within  all 
things  that  ultimate  reality  which  provokes 
emotional  exaltation  ; and,  if  he  does  not 
come  at  it  through  pure  form,  there  are, 
as  I have  said,  more  roads  than  one  to 
that  country.  Religion,  as  I understand  it, 
is  an  expression  of  the  individual’s  sense  of 
the  emotional  significance  of  the  universe ; 
I should  not  be  surprised  to  find  that  art 
was  an  expression  of  the  same  thing.  Any- 
way, both  seem  to  express  emotions  different 
from  and  transcending  the  emotions  of  life. 
Certainly  both  have  the  power  of  trans- 
porting men  to  superhuman  ecstasies ; both 
are  means  to  unearthly  states  of  mind. 
Art  and  religion  belong  to  the  same  world. 
Both  are  bodies  in  which  men  try  to  cap- 
ture and  keep  alive  their  shyest  and  most 
ethereal  conceptions.  The  kingdom  of 
neither  is  of  this  world.  Rightly,  there- 
fore, do  we  regard  art  and  religion  as  twin 
manifestations  of  the  spirit ; wrongly  do 
some  speak  of  art  as  a manifestation  of 
religion. 

If  it  were  said  that  art  and  religion  were 
twin  manifestations  of  something  that,  for 
convenience  sake,  may  be  called  “the  re- 
ligious spirit,”  I should  make  no  serious 
82 


ART  AND  RELIGION 


complaint.  But  I should  insist  on  the  dis- 
tinction between  “ religion,”  in  the  ordinary 
acceptation  of  the  word,  and  “ the  religious 
spirit  ” being  stated  beyond  all  possibility 
of  cavil.  I should  insist  that  if  we  are  to 
say  that  art  is  a manifestation  of  the  re- 
ligious spirit,  we  must  say  the  same  of  every 
respectable  religion  that  ever  has  existed  or 
ever  can  exist.  Above  all,  I should  insist 
that  whoever  said  it  should  bear  in  mind, 
whenever  he  said  it,  that  “ manifestation  ” 
is  at  least  as  different  from  “ expression  ” 
as  Monmouth  is  from  Macedon. 

The  religious  spirit  is  born  of  a conviction 
that  some  things  matter  more  than  others. 
To  those  possessed  by  it  there  is  a sharp  dis- 
tinction between  that  which  is  unconditioned 
and  universal  and  that  which  is  limited  and 
local.  It  is  a consciousness  of  the  uncon- 
ditioned and  universal  that  makes  people  re- 
ligious ; and  it  is  this  consciousness  or,  at 
least,  a conviction  that  some  things  are 
unconditioned  and  universal,  that  makes 
their  attitude  towards  the  conditioned  and 
local  sometimes  a little  unsympathetic.  It 
is  this  consciousness  that  makes  them  set 
justice  above  law,  passion  above  principle, 
sensibility  above  culture,  intelligence  above 
knowledge,  intuition  above  experience,  the 

83 


ART 


ideal  above  the  tolerable.  It  is  this  con- 
sciousness that  makes  them  the  enemies  of 
convention,  compromise,  and  common-sense. 
Jn  fact,  the  essence  of  religion  is  a convic- 
tion that  because  some  things  are  of  infinite 
value  most  are  profoundly  unimportant,  that 
since  the  gingerbread  is  there  one  need  not 
feel  too  strongly  about  the  gilt. 

It  is  useless  for  liberal  divines  to  pretend 
that  there  is  no  antagonism  between  the 
religious  nature  and  the  scientific.  There  is 
no  antagonism  between  religion  and  science, 
but  that  is  a very  different  matter.  In  fact, 
the  hypotheses  of  science  begin  only  where 
religion  ends : but  both  religion  and  science 
are  born  trespassers.  The  religious  and  the 
scientific  both  have  their  prejudices ; but 
their  prejudices  are  not  the  same.  The 
scientific  mind  cannot  free  itself  from  a 
prejudice  against  the  notion  that  effects  may 
exist  the  causes  of  which  it  ignores.  Not 
only  do  religious  minds  manage  to  believe 
that  there  may  be  effects  of  which  they  do 
not  know,  and  may  never  know,  the  causes 
— they  cannot  even  see  the  absolute  neces- 
sity for  supposing  that  everything  is  caused. 
Scientific  people  tend  to  trust  their  senses 
and  disbelieve  their  emotions  when  they 
contradict  them ; religious  people  tend  to 
84 


ART  AND  RELIGION 


trust  emotion  even  though  sensual  experi- 
ence be  against  it.  On  the  whole,  the 
religious  are  the  more  open-minded.  Their 
assumption  that  the  senses  may  mislead  is 
less  arrogant  than  the  assumption  that 
through  them  alone  can  we  come  at  reality, 
for,  as  Dr.  McTaggart  has  wittily  said,  “If 
a man  is  shut  up  in  a house,  the  trans- 
parency of  the  windows  is  an  essential  con- 
dition of  his  seeing  the  sky.  But  it  would 
not  be  prudent  to  infer  that,  if  he  walked 
out  of  the  house,  he  could  not  see  the  sky, 
because  there  was  no  longer  any  glass  through 
which  he  might  see  it.”  1 

Examples  of  scientific  bigotry  are  as 
common  as  blackberries.  The  attitude  of 
the  profession  towards  unorthodox  medicine 
is  the  classical  instance.  In  the  autumn  of 
1912  I was  walking  through  the  Grafton 
Galleries  with  a man  who  is  certainly  one  of 
the  ablest,  and  is  reputed  one  of  the  most 
enlightened,  of  contemporary  men  of  science. 
Looking  at  the  picture  of  a young  girl  with 
a cat  by  Henri-Matisse,  he  exclaimed — “ I 
see  how  it  is,  the  fellow  ’s  astigmatic.”  1 
should  have  let  this  bit  of  persiflage  go  un- 
answered, assuming  it  to  be  one  of  those 
witty  sallies  for  which  the  princes  of  science 
1 McTaggart : Some  Dogmas  of  Religion . 

85 


ART 


are  so  justly  famed  and  to  which  they  often 
treat  us  even  when  they  are  not  in  the 
presence  of  works  of  art,  had  not  the  pro- 
fessor followed  up  his  clue  with  the  utmost 
gravity,  assuring  me  at  last  that  no  picture  in 
the  gallery  was  beyond  the  reach  of  optical 
diagnostic.  Still  suspicious  of  his  good  faith, 
I suggested,  tentatively,  that  perhaps  the 
discrepancies  between  the  normal  man’s 
vision  and  the  pictures  on  the  wall  were  the 
result  of  intentional  distortion  on  the  part 
of  the  artists.  At  this  the  professor  became 
passionately  serious — “ Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me,”  he  bawled,  “that  there  has  ever  been 
a painter  who  did  not  try  to  make  his  objects 
as  lifelike  as  possible  ? Dismiss  such  silly 
nonsense  from  your  head.”  It  is  the  old 
story : “ Clear  your  mind  of  cant,”  that  is 

to  say,  of  anything  which  appears  improbable 
or  unpalatable  to  Dr.  Johnson. 

The  religious,  on  the  other  hand,  are  apt 
to  be  a little  prejudiced  against  common- 
sense;  and,  for  my  own  part,  I confess  that 
I am  often  tempted  to  think  that  a common- 
sense  view  is  necessarily  a wrong  one.  It 
was  common-sense  to  see  that  the  world 
must  be  flat  and  that  the  sun  must  go  round 
it ; only  when  those  fantastical  people  made 
themselves  heard  who  thought  that  the  solar 
86 


ART  AND  RELIGION 


system  could  not  be  quite  so  simple  an 
affair  as  common-sense  knew  it  must  be 
were  these  opinions  knocked  on  the  head. 
Dr.  Johnson,  the  great  exemplar  of  British 
common- sense,  observing  in  autumn  the 
gathered  swallows  skimming  over  pools  and 
rivers,  pronounced  it  certain  that  these  birds 
sleep  all  the  winter — “ A number  of  them 
conglobulate  together,  by  flying  round  and 
round,  and  then  all  in  a heap  throw  them- 
selves under  water,  and  lie  in  the  bed  of  a 
river  ” : how  sensibly,  too,  did  he  dispose  of 
Berkeley’s  Idealism — “ striking  his  foot  with 
mighty  force  against  a large  stone  ” — “ I 
refute  it  thus.”  Seriously,  is  the  common- 
sense  view  ever  the  right  one  ? 

Lately,  the  men  of  sense  and  science  have 
secured  allies  who  have  brought  to  their 
cause  what  most  it  lacked,  a little  funda- 
mental thought.  Those  able  and  honest 
people,  the  Cambridge  rationalists,  headed 
by  Mr.  G.  E.  Moore,  to  whose  Principia 
Ethica  I owe  so  much,  are,  of  course,  pro- 
foundly religious  and  live  by  a passionate 
faith  in  the  absolute  value  of  certain  states 
of  mind ; also  they  have  fallen  in  love 
with  the  conclusions  and  methods  of  science. 
Being  extremely  intelligent,  they  perceive, 
however,  that  empirical  arguments  can  avail 

87 


ART 


nothing  for  or  against  a metaphysical  theory, 
and  that  ultimately  all  the  conclusions  of 
science  are  based  on  a logic  that  precedes 
experience.  Also  they  perceive  that  emotions 
are  just  as  real  as  sensations.  They  find 
themselves  confronted,  therefore,  by  this 
difficulty ; if  someone  steps  forward  to  say 
that  he  has  a direct,  disinterested,  a priori , 
conviction  of  the  goodness  of  his  emotions 
towards  the  Mass,  he  puts  himself  in  the 
same  position  as  Mr.  Moore,  who  feels  a 
similar  conviction  about  the  goodness  of  his 
towards  the  Truth.  If  Mr.  Moore  is  to 
infer  the  goodness  of  one  state  of  mind 
from  his  feelings,  why  should  not  someone 
else  infer  the  goodness  of  another  from  his? 
The  Cambridge  rationalists  have  a short 
way  with  such  dissenters.  They  simply 
assure  them  that  they  do  not  feel  what  they 
say  they  feel.  Some  of  them  have  begun  to 
apply  their  cogent  methods  to  aesthetics ; 
and  when  we  tell  them  what  we  feel  for 
pure  form  they  assure  us  that,  in  fact,  we 
feel  nothing  of  the  sort.  This  argument, 
however,  has  always  struck  me  as  lacking 
in  subtlety. 

Much  as  he  dislikes  mentioning  the  fact 
or  hearing  it  mentioned,  the  common  man 
of  science  recognises  no  other  end  in  life 
88 


ART  AND  RELIGION 


than  protracted  and  agreeable  existence. 
That  is  where  he  joins  issue  with  the  religious  ; 
it  is  also  his  excuse  for  being  a eugenist. 
He  declines  to  believe  in  any  reality  other 
than  that  of  the  physical  universe.  On  that 
reality  he  insists  dogmatically.1  Man,  he 
says,  is  an  animal  who,  like  other  animals, 
desires  to  live ; he  is  provided  with  senses, 
and  these,  like  other  animals,  he  seeks  to 
gratify : in  these  facts  he  bids  us  find  an 
explanation  of  all  human  aspiration.  Man 
wants  to  live  and  he  wants  to  have  a good 
time ; to  compass  these  ends  he  has  devised 
an  elaborate  machinery.  All  emotion,  says 
the  common  man  of  science,  must  ultimately 
be  traced  to  the  senses.  All  moral,  religious 
and  aesthetic  emotions  are  derived  from 
physical  needs,  just  as  political  ideas  are 
based  on  that  gregarious  instinct  which  is 
simply  the  result  of  a desire  to  live  long  and 
to  live  in  comfort.  We  obey  the  by-law 
that  forbids  us  to  ride  a bicycle  on  the  foot- 
path, because  we  see  that,  in  the  long  run, 
such  a law  is  conducive  to  continued  and 

1 I am  aware  that  there  are  men  of  science  who  preserve 
an  open  mind  as  to  the  reality  of  the  physical  universe, 
and  recognise  that  what  is  known  as  “the  scientific 
hypothesis”  leaves  out  of  account  just  those  things  that 
seem  to  us  most  real.  Doubtless  these  are  the  true  men 
of  science  j they  are  not  the  common  ones. 

89 


ART 


agreeable  existence,  and  for  very  similar 
reasons,  says  the  man  of  science,  we  approve 
of  magnanimous  characters  and  sublime 
works  of  art. 

“ Not  so,”  reply  saints,  artists,  Cambridge 
rationalists,  and  all  the  better  sort ; for  they 
feel  that  their  religious,  aesthetic,  or  moral 
emotions  are  not  conditioned,  directly  or  in- 
directly, by  physical  needs,  nor,  indeed,  by 
anything  in  the  physical  universe.  Some 
things,  they  feel,  are  good,  not  because  they 
are  means  to  physical  well-being,  but  because 
they  are  good  in  themselves.  In  nowise 
does  the  value  of  aesthetic  or  religious  rapture 
depend  upon  the  physical  satisfaction  itaffords. 
There  are  things  in  life  the  worth  of  which 
cannot  be  related  to  the  physical  universe, 
— things  of  which  the  worth  is  not  relative 
but  absolute.  Of  these  matters  I speak 
cautiously  and  without  authority : for  my 
immediate  purpose — to  present  my  concep- 
tion of  the  religious  character — I need  say 
only  that  to  some  the  materialistic  con- 
ception of  the  universe  does  not  seem  to  ex 
plain  those  emotions  which  they  feel  with 
supreme  certainty  and  absolute  disinterested- 
ness. The  fact  is,  men  of  science,  having 
got  us  into  the  habit  of  attempting  to 
justify  all  our  feelings  and  states  of  mind 

90 


ART  AND  RELIGION 


by  reference  to  the  physical  universe,  have 
almost  bullied  some  of  us  into  believing 
that  what  cannot  be  so  justified  does  not 
exist. 

I call  him  a religious  man  who,  feeling  with 
conviction  that  some  things  are  good  in 
themselves,  and  that  physical  existence  is  not 
amongst  them,  pursues,  at  the  expense  of 
physical  existence,  that  which  appears  to  him 
good.  All  those  who  hold  with  uncompro- 
mising sincerity  that  spiritual  is  more  im- 
portant than  material  life,  are,  in  my  sense, 
religious.  For  instance,  in  Paris  I have  seen 
young  painters,  penniless,  half- fed, unwarmed, 
ill-clothed,  their  women  and  children  in  no 
better  case,  working  all  day  in  feverish  ecstasy 
at  unsaleable  pictures,  and  quite  possibly 
they  would  have  killed  or  wounded  anyone 
who  suggested  a compromise  with  the  market. 
When  materials  and  credit  failed  altogether, 
they  stole  newspapers  and  boot-blacking  that 
they  might  continue  to  serve  their  masterful 
passion.  They  were  superbly  religious.  All 
artists  are  religious.  All  uncompromising 
belief  is  religious.  A man  who  so  cares  for 
truth  that  he  will  go  to  prison,  or  death, 
rather  than  acknowledge  a God  in  whose 
existence  he  does  not  believe,  is  as  religious, 
and  as  much  a martyr  in  the  cause  of  re- 

91 


ART 


ligion,  as  Socrates  or  Jesus.  He  has  set 
his  criterion  of  values  outside  the  physical 
universe. 

In  material  things,  half  a loaf  is  said  to  be 
better  than  no  bread.  Not  so  in  spiritual. 
If  he  thinks  that  it  may  do  some  good,  a 
politician  will  support  a bill  which  he  con- 
siders inadequate.  He  states  his  objections 
and  votes  with  the  majority.  He  does  well, 
perhaps.  In  spiritual  matters  such  compro- 
mises are  impossible.  To  please  the  public 
the  artist  cannot  give  of  his  second  best.  To 
do  so  would  be  to  sacrifice  that  which  makes 
life  valuable.  Were  he  to  become  a liar  and 
express  something  different  from  what  he 
feels,  truth  would  no  longer  be  in  him. 
What  would  it  profit  him  to  gain  the  whole 
world  and  lose  his  own  soul  ? He  knows 
that  there  is  that  within  him  which  is  more 
important  than  physical  existence — that  to 
which  physical  existence  is  but  a means. 
That  he  may  feel  and  express  it,  it  is  good 
that  he  should  be  alive.  But  unless  he  may 
feel  and  express  the  best,  he  were  better 
dead. 

Art  and  Religion  are,  then,  two  roads  by 
which  men  escape  from  circumstance  to 
ecstasy.  Between  aesthetic  and  religious 
rapture  there  is  a family  alliance.  Art  and 
92 


ART  AND  RELIGION 

Religion  axe  means  to  similar  states  of  mind. 
And  if  we  are  licensed  to  lay  aside  the  science 
of  aesthetics  and,  going  behind  our  emotion 
and  its  object,  consider  what  is  in  the  mind  of 
the  artist,  we  may  say,  loosely  enough,  that 
art  is  a manifestation  of  the  religious  sense. 
If  it  be  an  expression  of  emotion — as  I am 
persuaded  that  it  is — it  is  an  expression  of 
that  emotion  which  is  the  vital  force  in  every 
religion,  or,  at  any  rate,  it  expresses  an 
emotion  felt  for  that  which  is  the  essence  of 
all.  We  may  say  that  both  art  and  religion 
are  manifestations  of  man’s  religious  sense,  if 
by  “ man’s  religious  sense  ” we  mean  his 
sense  of  ultimate  reality.  What  we  may  not 
say  is,  that  art  is  the  expression  of  any  parti- 
cular religion ; for  to  do  so  is  to  confuse  the 
religious  spirit  with  the  channels  in  which  it 
has  been  made  to  flow.  It  is  to  confuse  the 
wine  with  the  bottle.  Art  may  have  much 
to  do  with  that  universal  emotion  that  has 
found  a corrupt  and  stuttering  expression  in 
a thousand  different  creeds : it  has  nothing 
to  do  with  historical  facts  or  metaphysical 
fancies.  To  be  sure,  many  descriptive  paint- 
ings are  manifestos  and  expositions  of  re- 
ligious dogmas : a very  proper  use  for 
descriptive  painting  too.  Certainly  the  blot 
on  many  good  pictures  is  the  descriptive 

93 


ART 


clement  introduced  for  the  sake  of  edification 
and  instruction.  But  in  so  far  as  a picture  is 
a work  of  art,  it  has  no  more  to  do  with 
dogmas  or  doctrines,  facts  or  theories,  than 
with  the  interests  and  emotions  of  daily 
life. 


94 


II 


ART  AND  HISTORY 

And  yet  there  is  a connection  between  art 
and  religion,  even  in  the  common  and  limited 
sense  of  that  word.  There  is  an  historical 
connection  : or,  to  be  more  exact,  there  is  a 
fundamental  connection  between  the  history 
of  art  and  the  history  of  religion.  Religions 
are  vital  and  sincere  only  so  long  as  they  are 
animated  by  that  which  animates  all  great 
art — spiritual  ferment.  It  is  a mistake,  by 
the  way,  to  suppose  that  dogmatic  religion 
cannot  be  vital  and  sincere.  Religious  emo- 
tions tend  always  to  anchor  themselves  to 
earth  by  a chain  of  dogma.  That  tendency 
is  the  enemy  within  the  gate  of  every  move- 
ment. Dogmatic  religion  can  be  vital  and 
sincere,  and  what  is  more,  theology  and 
ritual  have  before  now  been  the  trumpet  and 
drum  of  spiritual  revolutions.  But  dogmatic 
or  intellectually  free,  religious  ages,  ages  of 
spiritual  turmoil,  ages  in  which  men  set  the 
95 


ART 


spirit  above  the  flesh  and  the  emotions  above 
the  intellect,  are  the  ages  in  which  is  felt  the 
emotional  significance  of  the  universe.  Then 
it  is  men  live  on  the  frontiers  of  reality  and 
listen  eagerly  to  travellers’  tales.  Thus  it 
comes  about  that  the  great  ages  of  religion 
are  commonly  the  great  ages  of  art.  As  the 
sense  of  reality  grows  dim,  as  men  become 
more  handy  at  manipulating  labels  and  sym- 
bols, more  mechanical,  more  disciplined, 
more  specialised,  less  capable  of  feeling  things 
directly,  the  power  of  escaping  to  the  world 
of  ecstasy  decays,  and  art  and  religion  begin 
to  sink.  When  the  majority  lack,  not  only 
the  emotion  out  of  which  art  and  religion 
are  made,  but  even  the  sensibility  to  respond 
to  what  the  few  can  still  offer,  art  and  re- 
ligion founder.  After  that,  nothing  is  left 
of  art  and  religion  but  their  names ; illusion 
and  prettiness  are  called  art,  politics  and 
sentimentality  religion. 

Now,  if  I am  right  in  thinking  that  art  is 
a manifestation — a manifestation,  mark,  and 
not  an  expression — of  man’s  spiritual  state, 
then  in  the  history  of  art  we  shall  read  the 
spiritual  history  of  the  race.  I am  not  sur- 
prised that  those  who  have  devoted  their 
lives  to  the  study  of  history  should  take  it 
ill  when  one  who  professes  only  to  under- 
96 


ART  AND  HISTORY 


stand  the  nature  of  art  hints  that  by  under- 
standing his  own  business  he  may  become  a 
judge  of  theirs.  Let  me  be  as  conciliatory 
as  possible.  No  one  can  have  less  right  than 
I,  or,  indeed,  less  inclination  to  assume  the 
proud  title  of  “ scientific  historian  ” : no  one 
can  care  less  about  historical  small-talk  or  be 
more  at  a loss  to  understand  what  precisely 
is  meant  by  “historical  science.”  Yet  if 
history  be  anything  more  than  a chronologi- 
cal catalogue  of  facts,  if  it  be  concerned  with 
the  movements  of  mind  and  spirit,  then  I 
submit  that  to  read  history  aright  we  must 
know,  not  only  the  works  of  art  that  each 
age  produced,  but  also  their  value  as  works 
of  art.  If  the  aesthetic  significance  or  in- 
significance of  works  of  art  does,  indeed, 
bear  witness  to  a spiritual  state,  then  he  who 
can  appreciate  that  significance  should  be  in 
a position  to  form  some  opinion  concerning 
the  spiritual  state  of  the  men  who  produced 
those  works  and  of  those  who  appreciated 
them.  If  art  be  at  all  the  sort  of  thing  it  is 
commonly  supposed  to  be,  the  history  of  art 
must  be  an  index  to  the  spiritual  history  of 
the  race.  Only,  the  historian  who  wishes  to 
use  art  as  an  index  must  possess  not  merely 
the  nice  observation  of  the  scholar  and  the 
archaeologist,  but  also  a fine  sensibility.  For 
97  g 


ART 


it  is  the  aesthetic  significance  of  a work  that 
gives  a clue  to  the  state  of  mind  that  pro- 
duced it ; so  the  ability  to  assign  a particular 
work  to  a particular  period  avails  nothing 
unaccompanied  by  the  power  of  appreciating 
its  aesthetic  significance. 

To  understand  completely  the  history  of 
an  age  must  we  know  and  understand  the 
history  of  its  art  ? It  seems  so.  And  yet 
the  idea  is  intolerable  to  scientific  historians. 
What  becomes  of  the  great  scientific  principle 
of  water-tight  compartments  ? Again,  it  is 
unjust : for  assuredly,  to  understand  art  we 
need  know  nothing  whatever  about  history. 
It  may  be  that  from  works  of  art  we  can 
draw  inferences  as  to  the  sort  of  people  who 
made  them : but  the  longest  and  most  inti- 
mate conversations  with  an  artist  will  not 
tell  us  whether  his  pictures  are  good  or  bad. 
We  must  see  them  : then  we  shall  know. 
I may  be  partial  or  dishonest  about  the  work 
of  my  friend,  but  its  aesthetic  significance  is 
not  more  obvious  to  me  than  that  of  a work 
that  was  finished  five  thousand  years  ago. 
To  appreciate  fully  a work  of  art  we  require 
nothing  but  sensibility.  To  those  that  can 
hear  Art  speaks  for  itself : facts  and  dates 
do  not ; to  make  bricks  of  such  stuff  one 
must  glean  the  uplands  and  hollows  for  tags 
98 


ART  AND  HISTORY 


of  auxiliary  information  and  suggestion ; 
and  the  history  of  art  is  no  exception  to  the 
rule.  To  appreciate  a man’s  art  I need 
know  nothing  whatever  about  the  artist ; I 
can  say  whether  this  picture  is  better  than 
that  without  the  help  of  history ; but  if  I 
am  trying  to  account  for  the  deterioration  of 
his  art,  I shall  be  helped  by  knowing  that  he 
has  been  seriously  ill  or  that  he  has  married 
a wife  who  insists  on  his  boiling  her  pot. 
To  mark  the  deterioration  was  to  make  a 
pure,  aesthetic  judgment : to  account  for  it 
was  to  become  an  historian.  To  understand 
the  history  of  art  we  must  know  something 
of  other  kinds  of  history.  Perhaps,  to 
understand  thoroughly  any  kind  of  history 
we  must  understand  every  kind  of  history. 
Perhaps  the  history  of  an  age  or  of  a life  is 
an  indivisible  whole.  Another  intolerable 
idea  ! What  becomes  of  the  specialist  ? 
What  of  those  formidable  compendiums  in 
which  the  multitudinous  activities  of  man 
are  kept  so  jealously  apart  ? The  mind 
boggles  at  the  monstrous  vision  of  its  own 
conclusions. 

But,  after  all,  does  it  matter  to  me?  I 
am  not  an  historian  of  art  or  of  anything 
else.  I care  very  little  when  things  were 
made,  or  why  they  were  made ; I care  about 
99 


ART 


their  emotional  significance  to  us.  To  the 
historian  everything  is  a means  to  some  other 
means ; to  me  everything  that  matters  is  a 
direct  means  to  emotion.  I am  writing  about 
art,  not  about  history.  With  history  I am 
concerned  only  in  so  far  as  history  serves  to 
illustrate  my  hypothesis  : and  whether  history 
be  true  or  false  matters  very  little,  since  my 
hypothesis  is  not  based  on  history  but  on 
personal  experience,  not  on  facts  but  on  feel- 
ings. Historical  fact  and  falsehood  aie  of 
no  consequence  to  people  who  try  to  deal 
with  realities.  They  need  not  ask,  “ Did 
this  happen  ? ” ; they  need  ask  only,  “ Do  I 
feel  this  ? ” Lucky  for  us  that  it  is  so  : for 
if  our  judgments  about  real  things  had  to 
wait  upon  historical  certitude  they  might 
have  to  wait  for  ever.  Nevertheless  it  is 
amusing  to  see  how  far  that  of  which  we  are 
sure  agrees  with  that  which  we  should  ex- 
pect. My  aesthetic  hypothesis — that  the 
essential  quality  in  a work  of  art  is  significant 
form — was  based  on  my  aesthetic  experience. 
Of  my  aesthetic  experiences  I am  sure.  About 
my  second  hypothesis,  that  significant  form 
is  the  expression  of  a peculiar  emotion  felt 
for  reality — I am  far  from  confident.  How- 
ever, 1 assume  it  to  be  true,  and  go  on  to 
suggest  that  this  sense  of  reality  leads  men 
ioo 


ART  AND  HISTORY 

to  attach  greater  importance  to  the  spiritual 
than  to  the  material  significance  of  the  uni- 
verse, that  it  disposes  men  to  feel  things  as 
ends  instead  of  merely  recognising  them  as 
means,  that  a sense  of  reality  is,  in  fact,  the 
essence  of  spiritual  health.  If  this  be  so, 
we  shall  expect  to  find  that  ages  in  which 
the  creation  of  significant  form  is  checked 
are  ages  in  which  the  sense  of  reality  is  dim, 
and  that  these  ages  are  ages  of  spiritual 
poverty.  We  shall  expect  to  find  the  curves 
of  art  and  spiritual  fervour  ascending  and 
descending  together.  In  my  next  chapter  I 
shall  glance  at  the  history  of  a cycle  of  art 
with  the  intention  of  following  the  movement 
of  art  and  discovering  how  far  that  move- 
ment keeps  pace  with  changes  in  the  spiritual 
state  of  society.  My  view  of  the  rise,  decline 
and  fall  of  art  in  Christendom  is  based  entirely 
on  a series  of  independent  aesthetic  judgments 
in  the  rightness  of  which  I have  the  arrogance 
to  feel  considerable  confidence.  I pretend  to 
a power  of  distinguishing  between  significant 
and  insignificant  form,  and  it  will  interest 
me  to  see  whether  a decline  in  the  significance 
of  forms — a deterioration  of  art,  that  is  to 
say — synchronises  generally  with  a lowering 
of  the  religious  sense.  I shall  expect  to  find 
that  whenever  artists  have  allowed  themselves 
IOI 


ART 


to  be  seduced  from  their  proper  business, 
the  creation  of  form,  by  other  and  irrelevant 
interests,  society  has  been  spiritually  decadent. 
Ages  in  which  the  sense  of  formal  signifi- 
cance has  been  swamped  utterly  by  preoccu- 
pation with  the  obvious,  will  turn  out,  I 
suspect,  to  have  been  ages  of  spiritual  famine. 
Therefore,  while  following  the  fortunes  of 
art  across  a period  of  fourteen  hundred  years, 
I shall  try  to  keep  an  eye  on  that  of  which 
art  may  be  a manifestation — man’s  sense  of 
ultimate  reality. 

To  criticise  a work  of  art  historically  is 
to  play  the  science-besotted  fool.  No  more 
disastrous  theory  ever  issued  from  the  brain 
of  a charlatan  than  that  of  evolution  in  art. 
Giotto  did  not  creep,  a grub,  that  Titian 
might  flaunt,  a butterfly.  To  think  of  a 
man’s  art  as  leading  on  to  the  art  of  someone 
else  is  to  misunderstand  it.  To  praise  or 
abuse  or  be  interested  in  a work  of  art  because 
it  leads  or  does  not  lead  to  another  work  of 
art  is  to  treat  it  as  though  it  were  not  a 
work  of  art.  The  connection  of  one  work 
of  art  with  another  may  have  everything  to 
do  with  history : it  has  nothing  to  do  with 
appreciation.  So  soon  as  we  begin  to  con- 
sider a work  as  anything  else  than  an  end  in 
itself  we  leave  the  world  of  art.  Though 
102 


ART  AND  HISTORY 


the  development  of  painting  from  Giotto  to 
Titian  may  be  interesting  historically,  it  can- 
not affect  the  value  of  any  particular  picture: 
aesthetically,  it  is  of  no  consequence  what- 
ever. Every  work  of  art  must  be  judged 
on  its  own  merits. 

Therefore,  be  sure  that,  in  my  next  chapter, 
I am  not  going  to  make  aesthetic  judgments 
in  the  light  of  history ; I am  going  to  read 
history  in  the  light  of  aesthetic  judgments. 
Having  made  my  judgments,  independently 
of  any  theory,  aesthetic  or  non-aesthetic,  I 
shall  be  amused  to  see  how  far  the  view  of 
history  that  may  be  based  on  them  agrees 
with  accepted  historical  hypotheses.  If  my 
judgments  and  the  dates  furnished  by  his- 
torians be  correct,  it  will  follow  that  some 
ages  have  produced  more  good  art  than 
others : but,  indeed,  it  is  not  disputed  that 
the  variety  in  the  artistic  significance  of  dif- 
ferent ages  is  immense.  I shall  be  curious 
to  see  what  relation  can  be  established  be- 
tween the  art  and  the  age  that  produced  it. 
If  my  second  hypothesis — that  art  is  the  ex- 
pression of  an  emotion  for  ultimate  reality 
— be  correct,  the  relation  between  art  and  its 
age  will  be  inevitable  and  intimate.  In  that 
case,  an  aesthetic  judgment  will  imply  some 
sort  of  judgment  about  the  general  state  of 
103 


ART 


mind  of  the  artist  and  his  admirers.  In  fact, 
anyone  who  accepts  absolutely  my  second 
hypothesis  with  all  its  possible  implications 
— which  is  more  than  I am  willing  to  do — 
will  not  only  see  in  the  history  of  art  the 
spiritual  history  of  the  race,  but  will  be  quite 
unable  to  think  of  one  without  thinking  of 
the  other. 

If  I do  not  go  quite  so  far  as  that,  I stop 
short  only  by  a little.  Certainly  it  is  less 
absurd  to  see  in  art  the  key  to  history  than 
to  imagine  that  history  can  help  us  to  an 
appreciation  of  art.  In  ages  of  spiritual 
fervour  I look  for  great  art.  By  ages  of 
spiritual  fervour  I do  not  mean  pleasant  or 
romantic  or  humane  or  enlightened  ages ; I 
mean  ages  in  which,  for  one  reason  or 
another,  men  have  been  unusually  excited 
about  their  souls  and  unusually  indifferent 
about  their  bodies.  Such  ages,  as  often  as 
not,  have  been  superstitious  and  cruel.  Pre- 
occupation with  the  soul  may  lead  to 
superstition,  indifference  about  the  body  to 
cruelty.  I never  said  that  ages  of  great  art 
were  sympathetic  to  the  middle-classes.  Art 
and  a quiet  life  are  incompatible  I think ; 
some  stress  and  turmoil  there  must  be. 
Need  I add  that  in  the  snuggest  age  of 
materialism  great  artists  may  arise  and 
104 


ART  AND  HISTORY 


flourish  ? Of  course  : but  when  the  pro- 
duction of  good  art  is  at  all  widespread  and 
continuous,  near  at  hand  I shall  expect  to 
find  a restless  generation.  Also,  having 
marked  a period  of  spiritual  stir,  I shall 
look,  not  far  off,  for  its  manifestation  in 
significant  form.  But  the  stir  must  be 
spiritual  and  genuine ; a swirl  of  emotional- 
ism or  political  frenzy  will  provoke  nothing 
fine.1  How  far  in  any  particular  age  the 
production  of  art  is  stimulated  by  general 
exaltation,  or  general  exaltation  by  works 
of  art,  is  a question  hardly  to  be  decided. 
Wisest,  perhaps,  is  he  who  says  that  the 
two  seem  to  have  been  interdependent.  Just 
how  dependent  I believe  them  to  have  been, 
will  appear  when,  in  my  next  chapter,  I 
attempt  to  sketch  the  rise,  decline,  and  fall 
of  the  Christian  slope. 

1 I should  not  have  expected  the  wars  of  so-called 
religion  or  the  Puritan  revolution  to  have  awakened  in 
men  a sense  of  the  emotional  significance  of  the  universe, 
and  I should  be  a good  deal  surprised  if  Sir  Edward 
Carson’s  agitation  were  to  produce  in  the  North-East  of 
Ireland  a crop  of  first-rate  formal  expression. 


IOJ 


Ill 


ART  AND  ETHICS 

Between  me  and  the  pleasant  places  of 
history  remains,  however,  one  ugly  barrier. 
I cannot  dabble  and  paddle  in  the  pools  and 
shallows  of  the  past  until  I have  answered 
a question  so  absurd  that  the  nicest  people 
never  tire  of  asking  it : “ What  is  the  moral 
justification  of  art  ? ” Of  course  they  are 
right  who  insist  that  the  creation  of  art 
must  be  justified  on  ethical  grounds : all 
human  activities  must  be  so  justified.  It  is 
the  philosopher’s  privilege  to  call  upon  the 
artist  to  show  that  what  he  is  about  is  either 
good  in  itself  or  a means  to  good.  It  is  the 
artist’s  duty  to  reply  : “ Art  is  good  because 
it  exalts  to  a state  of  ecstasy  better  far 
than  anything  a benumbed  moralist  can 
even  guess  at ; so  shut  up.”  Philosophically 
he  is  quite  right ; only,  philosophy  is  not 
so  simple  as  that.  Let  us  try  to  answer 
philosophically. 

106 


ART  AND  ETHICS 


The  moralist  inquires  whether  art  is  either 
good  in  itself  or  a means  to  good.  Before 
answering,  we  will  ask  what  he  means  by  the 
word  “good,”  not  because  it  is  in  the  least 
doubtful,  but  to  make  him  think.  In  fact, 
Mr.  G.  E.  Moore  has  shown  pretty  con- 
clusively in  his  Principia  Ethica  that  by 
“good”  everyone  means  just  good.  We 
all  know  quite  well  what  we  mean  though 
we  cannot  define  it.  “ Good  ” can  no 
more  be  defined  than  “ Red  ” : no  quality 

can  be  defined.  Nevertheless  we  know 
perfectly  well  what  we  mean  when  we  say 
that  a thing  is  “ good  ” or  “ red.”  This  is 
so  obviously  true  that  its  statement  has 
greatly  disconcerted,  not  to  say  enraged, 
the  orthodox  philosophers. 

Orthodox  philosophers  are  by  no  means 
agreed  as  to  what  we  do  mean  by  “ good,” 
only  they  are  sure  that  we  cannot  mean 
what  we  say.  They  used  to  be  fond  of 
assuming  that  “ good  ” meant  pleasure ; or, 
at  any  rate,  that  pleasure  was  the  sole  good 
as  an  end  : two  very  different  propositions. 
That  “ good  ” means  “ pleasure  ” and  that 
pleasure  is  the  sole  good  was  the  opinion  of 
the  Hedonists,  and  is  still  the  opinion  of 
any  Utilitarians  who  may  have  lingered  on 
into  the  twentieth  century.  They  enjoy  the 
107 


ART 


honour  of  being  the  only  ethical  fallacies 
worth  the  powder  and  shot  of  a writer  on 
art.  I can  imagine  no  more  delicate  or 
convincing  piece  of  logic  than  that  by 
which  Mr.  G.  E.  Moore  disposes  of 
both.  But  it  is  none  of  my  business 

to  do  clumsily  what  Mr.  Moore  has  done 
exquisitely.  I have  no  mind  by  attempt- 
ing to  reproduce  his  dialectic  to  incur 
the  merited  ridicule  of  those  familiar  with 
the  Principia  Ethic  a or  to  spoil  the  pleasure 
of  those  who  will  be  wise  enough  to 
run  out  this  very  minute  and  order  a 
masterpiece  with  which  they  happen  to  be 
unacquainted.  For  my  immediate  purpose 
it  is  necessary  only  to  borrow  one  shaft 
from  that  well-stocked  armoury. 

To  him  who  believes  that  pleasure  is 
the  sole  good,  I will  put  this  question : 
Does  he,  like  John  Stuart  Mill,  and 
everyone  else  I ever  heard  of,  speak  of 
“ higher  and  lower  ” or  “ better  and  worse  99 
or  “ superior  and  inferior  ” pleasures  ? And, 
if  so,  does  he  not  perceive  that  he  has 
given  away  his  case?  For,  when  he  says 
that  one  pleasure  is  “ higher  ” or  “ better  *’ 
than  another,  he  does  not  mean  that  it 
is  greater  in  quantity  but  superior  in 
quality . 

108 


ART  AND  ETHICS 

On  page  7 of  Utilitarianism,  J.  S.  Mill 
says  : — 

“ If  one  of  the  two  (pleasures)  is,  by  those 
who  are  competently  acquainted  with  both, 
placed  so  far  above  the  other  that  they 
prefer  it,  even  though  knowing  it  to  be 
attended  with  a greater  amount  of  discon- 
tent, and  would  not  resign  it  for  any  quantity 
of  the  other  pleasure  which  their  nature  is 
capable  of,  we  are  justified  in  ascribing  to 
the  preferred  enjoyment  a superiority  in 
quality,  so  far  outweighing  quantity  as  to 
render  it,  in  comparison,  of  small  account.” 

But  if  pleasure  be  the  sole  good,  the  only 
possible  criterion  of  pleasures  is  quantity  of 
pleasure.  “ Higher  ” or  “ better  ” can  only 
mean  containing  more  pleasure.  To  speak 
of  “ better  pleasures  ” in  any  other  sense  is 
to  make  the  goodness  of  the  sole  good  as  an 
end  depend  upon  something  which,  ex  hypo- 
thesis is  not  good  as  an  end.  Mill  is  as  one 
who,  having  set  up  sweetness  as  the  sole 
good  quality  in  jam,  prefers  Tiptree  to 
Crosse  and  Blackwell,  not  because  it  is 
sweeter,  but  because  it  possesses  a better  kind 
of  sweetness.  To  do  so  is  to  discard  sweet- 
ness as  an  ultimate  criterion  and  to  set  up 
something  else  in  its  place.  So,  when  Mill, 
109 


ART 


like  everyone  else,  speaks  of  “ better  ” or 
“ higher  ” or  “ superior  ” pleasures,  he  dis- 
cards pleasure  as  an  ultimate  criterion,  and 
thereby  admits  that  pleasure  is  not  the  sole 
good.  He  feels  that  some  pleasures  are 
better  than  others,  and  determines  their 
respective  values  by  the  degree  in  which  they 
possess  that  quality  which  all  recognise  but 
none  can  define — goodness.  By  higher  and 
lower,  superior  and  inferior  pleasures  we 
mean  simply  more  good  and  less  good 
pleasures.  There  are,  therefore,  two  differ- 
ent qualities,  Pleasantness  and  Goodness. 
Pleasure,  amongst  other  things,  may  be 
good  ; but  pleasure  cannot  mean  good.  By 
“good”  we  cannot  mean  “ pleasureable  ; ” 
for,  as  we  see,  there  is  a quality,  “ good- 
ness,” so  distinct  from  pleasure  that  we 
speak  of  pleasures  that  are  more  or  less 
good  without  meaning  pleasures  that  are 
more  or  less  pleasant.  By  “ good,”  then,  we 
do  not  mean  “ pleasure,”  neither  is  pleasure 
the  sole  good. 

Mr.  Moore  goes  on  to  inquire  what 
things  are  good  in  themselves,  as  ends  that 
is  to  say.  He  comes  to  a conclusion  with 
which  we  all  agree,  but  for  which  few  could 
have  found  convincing  and  logical  argu- 
ments: “states  of  mind,”  he  shows,  alone 
i io 


ART  AND  ETHICS 


are  good  as  ends.1  People  who  have  very 
little  taste  for  logic  will  find  a simple  and 
satisfactory  proof  of  this  conclusion  afforded 
by  what  is  called  “the  method  of  isolation.” 
That  which  is  good  as  an  end  will  retain 
some,  at  any  rate,  of  its  value  in  complete 
isolation  : it  will  retain  all  its  value  as  an 
end.  That  which  is  good  as  a means  only 
will  lose  all  its  value  in  isolation.  That 
which  is  good  as  an  end  will  remain  valuable 
even  when  deprived  of  all  its  consequences 
and  left  with  nothing  but  bare  existence. 
Therefore,  we  can  discover  whether  honestly 
we  feel  some  thing  to  be  good  as  an  end,  if 
only  we  can  conceive  it  in  complete  isolation, 
and  be  sure  that  so  isolated  it  remains 
valuable.  Bread  is  good.  Is  bread  good  as 
an  end  or  as  a means?  Conceive  a loaf 
existing  in  an  uninhabited  and  uninhabitable 
planet.  Does  it  seem  to  lose  its  value  ? 
That  is  a little  too  easy.  The  physical 
universe  appears  to  most  people  immensely 
good,  for  towards  nature  they  feel  violently 
that  emotional  reaction  which  brings  to  the 
lips  the  epithet  “ good  ” ; but  if  the  physical 
universe  were  not  related  to  mind,  if  it  were 

1 Formerly  he  held  that  inanimate  beauty  also  was 
good  in  itself.  But  this  tenet,  I am  glad  to  learn,  he  has 
discarded. 

1 1 1 


ART 


never  to  provoke  an  emotional  reaction,  if 
no  mind  were  ever  to  be  affected  by  it,  and 
if  it  had  no  mind  of  its  own,  would  it  still 
appear  good  ? There  are  two  stars  : one  is, 
and  ever  will  be,  void  of  life,  on  the  other 
exists  a fragment  of  just  living  protoplasm 
which  will  never  develop,  will  never  become 
conscious.  Can  we  say  honestly  that  we 
feel  one  to  be  better  than  the  other?  Is  life 
itself  good  as  an  end  ? A clear  judgment  is 
made  difficult  by  the  fact  that  one  cannot 
conceive  anything  without  feeling  something 
for  it ; one’s  very  conceptions  provoke  states 
of  mind  and  thus  acquire  value  as  means. 
Let  us  ask  ourselves,  bluntly,  can  that  which 
has  no  mind  and  affects  no  mind  have  value  ? 
Surely  not.  But  anything  which  has  a mind 
can  have  intrinsic  value,  and  anything  that 
affects  a mind  may  become  valuable  as  a 
means,  since  the  state  of  mind  produced 
may  be  valuable  in  itself.  Isolate  that  mind. 
Isolate  the  state  of  mind  of  a man  in  love  or 
rapt  in  contemplation  ; it  does  not  seem  to 
lose  all  its  value.  I do  not  say  that  its 
value  is  not  decreased ; obviously,  it  loses  its 
value  as  a means  to  producing  good  states 
of  mind  in  others.  But  a certain  value  does 
subsist — an  intrinsic  value.  Populate  the 
lone  star  with  one  human  mind  and  every 
I 12 


ART  AND  ETHICS 

part  of  that  star  becomes  potentially  valu- 
able as  a means,  because  it  may  be  a means 
to  that  which  is  good  as  an  end — a good 
state  of  mind.  The  state  of  mind  of  a 
person  in  love  or  rapt  in  contemplation 
suffices  in  itself.  We  do  not  stay  to  inquire 
“ What  useful  purpose  does  this  serve, 
whom  does  it  benefit,  and  how?”  We 
say  directly  and  with  conviction — “ This  is 
good.” 

When  we  are  challenged  to  justify  our 
opinion  that  anything,  other  than  a state  of 
mind,  is  good,  we,  feeling  it  to  be  a means 
only,  do  very  properly  seek  its  good  effects, 
and  our  last  justification  is  always  that  it 
produces  good  states  of  mind.  Thus,  when 
asked  why  we  call  a patent  fertiliser  good, 
we  may,  if  we  can  find  a listener,  show  that 
the  fertiliser  is  a means  to  good  crops, 
good  crops  a means  to  food,  food  a means  to 
life,  and  life  a necessary  condition  of  good 
states  of  mind.  Further  we  cannot  go. 
When  asked  why  we  hold  a particular  state 
of  mind  to  be  good,  the  state  of  aesthetic 
contemplation  for  instance,  we  can  but  reply 
that  to  us  its  goodness  is  self-evident.  Some 
states  of  mind  appear  to  be  good  inde- 
pendently of  their  consequences.  No  other 
things  appear  to  be  good  in  this  way.  We 
ii  3 H 


ART 


conclude,  therefore,  that  good  states  of 
mind  are  alone  good  as  ends. 

To  justify  ethically  any  human  activity,  we 
must  inquire — “ Is  this  a means  to  good 
states  of  mind?”  In  the  case  of  art  our 
answer  will  be  prompt  and  emphatic.  Art 
is  not  only  a means  to  good  states  of  mind, 
but,  perhaps,  the  most  direct  and  potent  that 
we  possess.  Nothing  is  more  direct,  because 
nothing  affects  the  mind  more  immediately ; 
nothing  is  more  potent,  because  there  is  no 
state  of  mind  more  excellent  or  more  intense 
than  the  state  of  aesthetic  contemplation. 
This  being  so,  to  seek  any  other  moral 
justification  for  art,  to  seek  in  art  a means 
to  anything  less  than  good  states  of  mind,  is 
an  act  of  wrong-headedness  to  be  committed 
only  by  a fool  or  a man  of  genius. 

Many  fools  have  committed  it  and  one 
man  of  genius  has  made  it  notorious.  Never 
was  cart  put  more  obstructively  before  horse 
than  when  Tolstoi  announced  that  the  justi- 
fication of  art  was  its  power  of  promoting 
good  actions.  As  if  actions  were  ends  in 
themselves  ! There  is  neither  virtue  nor  vice 
in  running : but  to  run  with  good  tidings  is 
commendable,  to  run  away  with  an  old  lady’s 
purse  is  not.  There  is  no  merit  in  shouting  : 
but  to  speak  up  for  truth  and  justice  is  well, 
I x4 


ART  AND  ETHICS 


to  deafen  the  world  with  charlatanry  is 
damnable.  Always  it  is  the  end  in  view  that 
gives  value  to  action  ; and,  ultimately,  the 
end  of  all  good  actions  must  be  to  create  or 
encourage  or  make  possible  good  states  of 
mind.  Therefore,  inciting  people  to  good 
actions  by  means  of  edifying  images  is  a 
respectable  trade  and  a roundabout  means  to 
good.  Creating  works  of  art  is  as  direct  a 
means  to  good  as  a human  being  can  practise. 
Just  in  this  fact  lies  the  tremendous  import- 
ance of  art : there  is  no  more  direct  means 
to  good. 

To  pronounce  anything  a work  of  art  is, 
therefore,  to  make  a momentous  moral  judg- 
ment. It  is  to  credit  an  object  with  being  so 
direct  and  powerful  a means  to  good  that  we 
need  not  trouble  ourselves  about  any  other 
of  its  possible  consequences.  But  even  were 
this  not  the  case,  the  habit  of  introducing 
moral  considerations  into  judgments  between 
particular  works  of  art  would  be  inexcusable. 
Let  the  moralist  make  a judgment  about  art 
as  a whole,  let  him  assign  it  what  he  considers 
its  proper  place  amongst  means  to  good,  but 
in  aesthetic  judgments,  in  judgments  between 
members  of  the  same  class,  in  judgments 
between  works  of  art  considered  as  art,  let 
him  hold  his  tongue.  If  he  esteem  art 

llS 


ART 


anything  less  than  equal  to  the  greatest  means 
to  good  he  mistakes.  But  granting,  for  the 
sake  of  peace,  its  inferiority  to  some,  I will 
yet  remind  him  that  his  moral  judgments 
about  the  value  of  particular  works  of  art 
have  nothing  to  do  with  their  artistic  value. 
The  judge  at  Epsom  is  not  permitted  to 
disqualify  the  winner  of  the  Derby  in  favour 
of  the  horse  that  finished  last  but  one  on  the 
ground  that  the  latter  is  just  the  animal  for 
the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury’s  brougham. 

Define  art  as  you  please,  preferably  in 
accordance  with  my  ideas ; assign  it  what 
place  you  will  in  the  moral  system  ; and  then 
discriminate  between  works  of  art  according 
to  their  excellence  in  that  quality,  or  those 
qualities,  that  you  have  laid  down  in  your 
definition  as  essential  and  peculiar  to  works 
of  art.  You  may,  of  course,  make  ethical 
judgments  about  particular  works,  not  as 
works  of  art,  but  as  members  of  some  other 
class,  or  as  independent  and  unclassified  parts 
of  the  universe.  You  may  hold  that  a par- 
ticular picture  by  the  President  of  the  Royal 
Academy  is  a greater  means  to  good  than  one 
by  the  glory  of  the  New  English  Art  Club, 
and  that  a penny  bun  is  better  than  either. 
In  such  a case  you  will  be  making  a moral 
and  not  an  aesthetic  judgment.  Therefore  it 
1 16 


ART  AND  ETHICS 


will  be  right  to  take  into  account  the  area  of 
the  canvases,  the  thickness  of  the  frames, 
and  the  potential  value  of  each  as  fuel  or 
shelter  against  the  rigours  of  our  climate. 
In  casting  up  accounts  you  should  not  neglect 
their  possible  effects  on  the  middle-aged 
people  who  visit  Burlington  House  and  the 
Suffolk  Street  Gallery  ; nor  must  you  forget 
the  consciences  of  those  who  handle  the 
Chantry  funds,  or  of  those  whom  high  prices 
provoke  to  emulation.  You  will  be  making 
a moral  and  not  an  aesthetic  judgment ; and 
if  you  have  concluded  that  neither  picture  is 
a work  of  art,  though  you  may  be  wasting 
your  time,  you  will  not  be  making  yourself 
ridiculous.  But  when  you  treat  a picture 
as  a work  of  art,  you  have,  unconsciously 
perhaps,  made  a far  more  important  moral 
judgment.  You  have  assigned  it  to  a class 
of  objects  so  powerful  and  direct  as  means 
to  spiritual  exaltation  that  all  minor  merits 
are  inconsiderable.  Paradoxical  as  it  may 
seem,  the  only  relevant  qualities  in  a work 
of  art,  judged  as  art,  are  artistic  qualities: 
judged  as  a means  to  good,  no  other  qualities 
are  worth  considering ; for  there  are  no 
qualities  of  greater  moral  value  than  artistic 
qualities,  since  there  is  no  greater  means  to 
good  than  art. 


Ill 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SLOPE 

I.  The  Rise  of  Christian  Art 

II.  Greatness  and  Decline 

III.  The  Classical  Renaissance  and  its 

Diseases 

IV.  Alid  ex  Alio 


BYZANTINE  MOSAIC,  SIXTH  CENTURY 


THE  RISE  OF  CHRISTIAN  ART 


What  do  I mean  by  a slope?  That  I hope 
to  make  clear  in  the  course  of  this  chapter 
and  the  next.  But,  as  readers  may  expect 
something  to  go  on  with,  I will  explain 
immediately  that,  though  I recognise  the 
continuity  of  the  stream  of  art,  I believe 
that  it  is  possible  and  proper  to  divide  that 
stream  into  slopes  and  movements.  About 
the  exact  line  of  division  there  can  be 
no  certainty.  It  is  easy  to  say  that  in  the 
passage  of  a great  river  from  the  hills  to  the 
sea,  the  depth,  the  width,  the  colour,  the 
temperature,  and  the  velocity  of  the  waters 
are  bound  to  change ; to  fix  precisely  the 
point  of  change  is  another  matter.  If  I try 
to  picture  for  myself  the  whole  history  of 
art  from  earliest  times  in  all  parts  of  the 
world  I am  unable,  of  course,  to  see  it  as  a 
single  thread.  The  stuff  of  which  it  is  made 
is  unchangeable,  it  is  always  water  that  flows 


ART 


down  the  river,  but  there  is  more  than  one 
channel : for  instance,  there  is  European  art 
and  Oriental.  To  me  the  universal  history 
of  art  has  the  look  of  a map  in  which  several 
streams  descend  from  the  same  range  of 
mountains  to  the  same  sea.  They  start  from 
different  altitudes  but  all  descend  at  last  to 
one  level.  Thus,  I should  say  that  the  slope  at 
the  head  of  which  stand  the  Buddhist  master- 
pieces of  the  Wei,  Liang,  and  T’ang  dynasties 
begins  a great  deal  higher  than  the  slope  at 
the  head  of  which  are  the  Greek  primitives 
of  the  seventh  century,  and  higher  than  that 
of  which  early  Sumerian  sculpture  is  the 
head  ; but  when  we  have  to  consider  con- 
temporary Japanese  art,  Graeco-Roman  and 
Roman  sculpture,  and  late  Assyrian,  we  see 
that  all  have  found  the  same  sea-level  of 
nasty  naturalism. 

By  a slope,  then,  I mean  that  which  lies 
between  a great  primitive  morning,  when 
men  create  art  because  they  must,  and  that 
darkest  hour  when  men  confound  imitation 
with  art.  These  slopes  can  be  subdivided 
into  movements.  The  downward  course  of 
a slope  is  not  smooth  and  even,  but  broken 
and  full  of  accidents.  Indeed  the  procession 
of  art  does  not  so  much  resemble  a river  as  a 
road  from  the  mountains  to  the  plain.  That 
122 


THE  RISE  OF  CHRISTIAN  ART 


road  is  a sequence  of  ups  and  downs.  An 
up  and  a down  together  form  a movement. 
Sometimes  the  apex  of  one  movement  seems 
to  reach  as  high  as  the  apex  of  the  move- 
ment that  preceded  it,  but  always  its  base 
carries  us  farther  down  the  slope.  Also,  in 
the  history  of  art  the  summit  of  one  move- 
ment seems  always  to  spring  erect  from  the 
trough  of  its  predecessor.  The  upward 
stroke  is  vertical,  the  downward  an  inclined 
plane.  For  instance,  from  Duccio  to  Giotto 
is  a step  up,  sharp  and  shallow.  From  Giotto 
to  Lionardo  is  a long  and,  at  times,  almost 
imperceptible  fall.  Duccio  is  a fine  decadent 
of  that  Basilian  movement  which  half  sur- 
vived the  Latin  conquest  and  came  to  an 
exquisite  end  under  the  earlier  Palaeologi. 
The  peak  of  that  movement  rises  high  above 
Giotto,  though  Duccio  near  its  base  is  below 
him.  Giotto’s  art  is  definitely  inferior  to 
the  very  finest  Byzantine  of  the  eleventh  and 
twelfth  centuries,  and  Giotto  is  the  crest  of  a 
new  movement  destined  and  doomed  inevit- 
ably to  sink  to  depths  undreamed  of  by 
Duccio. 

All  that  was  spiritual  in  Greek  civilisation 
was  sick  before  the  sack  of  Corinth,  and  all 
that  was  alive  in  Greek  art  had  died  many 
years  earlier.  That  it  had  died  before  the 
123 


ART 


death  of  Alexander  let  his  tomb  at  Constanti- 
nople be  my  witness.  Before  they  set  the 
last  stone  of  the  Parthenon  it  was  ailing  : the 
big  marbles  in  the  British  Museum  are  the 
last  significant  examples  of  Greek  art ; the 
frieze,  of  course,  proves  nothing,  being  mere 
artisan  work.  But  the  man  who  made  what 
one  may  as  well  call  “ The  Theseus  ” and 
“ The  Ilissus,”  the  man  whom  one  may  as 
well  call  Phidias,  crowns  the  last  vital  move- 
ment in  the  Hellenic  slope.  He  is  a genius, 
but  he  is  no  oddity  : he  falls  quite  naturally 
into  his  place  as  the  master  of  the  early 
decadence ; he  is  the  man  in  whom  runs 
rich  and  fast  but  a little  coarsened  the 
stream  of  inspiration  that  gave  life  to  archaic 
Greek  sculpture.  He  is  the  Giotto — but  an 
inferior  Giotto — of  the  slope  that  starts  from 
the  eighth  century  b.c. — so  inferior  to  the 
sixth  century  a.d. — to  peter  out  in  the  bogs 
of  Hellenistic  and  Roman  rubbish.  Whence 
sprang  that  Hellenic  impulse  ? As  yet  we 
cannot  tell.  Probably,  from  the  ruins  of 
some  venerable  Mediterranean  civility,  against 
the  complex  materialism  of  which  it  was,  in 
its  beginnings,  I dare  say,  a reaction.  The 
story  of  its  prime  can  be  read  in  fragments 
of  archaic  sculpture  scattered  throughout 
Europe,  and  studied  in  the  National  Museum 
124 


THE  RISE  OF  CHRISTIAN  ART 


at  Athens,  where  certain  statues  of  athletes, 
dating  from  about  600,  reveal  the  excellences 
and  defects  of  Greek  art  at  its  best.  Of  its 
early  decline  in  the  fifth  century  Phidias  is 
the  second-rate  Giotto ; the  copies  of  his 
famous  contemporaries  and  immediate  pre- 
decessors are  too  loathsome  to  be  at  all  just ; 
Praxiteles,  in  the  fourth  century,  the  age  of 
accomplished  prettiness,  is  the  Correggio,  or 
whatever  delightful  trifler  your  feeling  for 
art  and  chronology  may  suggest.  Fifth  and 
fourth  century  architecture  forbid  us  to  for- 
get the  greatness  of  the  Greeks  in  the  golden 
age  of  their  intellectual  and  political  history. 
The  descent  from  sensitive,  though  always 
rather  finikin,  drawing  through  the  tasteful 
and  accomplished  to  the  feebly  forcible  may 
be  followed  in  the  pots  and  vases  of  the 
sixth,  fifth,  fourth,  and  third  centuries.  In 
the  long  sands  and  flats  of  Roman  realism 
the  stream  of  Greek  inspiration  is  lost  for 
ever. 

Before  the  death  of  Marcus  Aurelius, 
Europe  was  as  weary  of  materialism  as 
England  before  the  death  of  Victoria.  But 
what  power  was  to  destroy  a machine  that 
had  enslaved  men  so  completely  that  they 
dared  not  conceive  an  alternative  ? The 
machine  was  grown  so  huge  that  man  could 
125 


ART 


no  longer  peer  over  its  side ; man  could  see 
nothing  but  its  cranks  and  levers,  could  hear 
nothing  but  its  humming,  could  mark  the 
spinning  fly-wheel  and  fancy  himself  in  con- 
templation of  the  revolving  spheres.  Anni- 
hilation was  the  only  escape  for  the  Roman 
citizen  from  the  Roman  Empire.  Yet,  while 
in  the  West  Hadrian  was  raising  the  Imperial 
talent  for  brutalisation  to  a system  and  a 
science,  somewhere  in  the  East,  in  Egypt,  or 
in  Asia  Minor,  or,  more  probably  in  Syria, 
in  Mesopotamia,  or  even  Persia,  the  new 
leaven  was  at  work.  That  power  which 
was  to  free  the  world  was  in  ferment.  The 
religious  spirit  was  again  coming  to  birth. 
Here  and  there,  in  face  of  the  flat  contra- 
diction of  circumstances,  one  would  arise 
and  assert  that  man  does  not  live  by  bread 
alone.  Orphism,  Mythraism,  Christianity, 
many  forms  of  one  spirit,  were  beginning  to 
mean  something  more  than  curious  ritual 
and  discreet  debauch.  Very  slowly  a change 
was  coming  over  the  face  of  Europe. 

There  was  change  before  the  signs  of  it 
became  apparent.  The  earliest  Christian 
paintings  in  the  catacombs  are  purely  classical. 
If  the  early  Christians  felt  anything  new 
they  could  not  express  it.  But  before  the 
second  century  was  out  Coptic  craftsmen 
126 


THE  RISE  OF  CHRISTIAN  ART 

had  begun  to  weave  into  dead  Roman  de- 
signs something  vital.  The  academic  patterns 
are  queerly  distorted  and  flattened  out  into 
forms  of  a certain  significance,  as  we  can  feel 
for  ourselves  if  we  go  to  the  textile  room  at 
South  Kensington.  Certainly,  these  second 
century  Coptic  textiles  are  more  like  works 
of  art  than  anything  that  had  been  produced 
in  the  Roman  Empire  for  more  than  four 
hundred  years.  Egyptian  paintings  of  the 
third  century  bear  less  positive  witness  to 
the  fumblings  of  a new  spirit.  But  at  the 
beginning  of  the  fourth  century  Diocletian 
built  his  palace  at  Spalato,  where  we  have  all 
learned  to  see  classicism  and  the  new  spirit 
from  the  East  fighting  it  out  side  by  side ; 
and,  if  we  may  trust  Strzygowski,  from  the 
end  of  that  century  dates  the  beautiful 
church  of  Kodja-Kalessi  in  Isauria.  The 
century  in  which  the  East  finally  dominated 
the  West  (350-450)  is  a period  of  incuba- 
tion. It  is  a time  of  disconcerting  activity 
that  precedes  the  unmistakable  launch  of 
art  upon  the  Christian  slope.  I would  con- 
fidently assert  that  every  artistic  birth  is  pre- 
ceded by  a period  of  uneasy  gestation  in 
which  the  unborn  child  acquires  the  organs 
and  energy  that  are  to  carry  it  forward  on 
its  long  journey,  if  only  I possessed  the  data 
127 


ART 


that  would  give  a tottering  support  to  sc 
comforting  a generalisation.  Alas ! the 
births  of  the  great  slopes  of  antiquity  are 
shrouded  in  a night  scarcely  ruffled  by  the 
minute  researches  of  patient  archaeologists 
and  impervious  to  the  startling  discoveries 
by  experts  of  more  or  less  palpable  forgeries. 
Of  these  critical  periods  we  dare  not  speak 
confidently ; nevertheless  we  can  compare 
the  fifth  century  with  the  nineteenth  and 
draw  our  own  conclusions. 

In  450  they  built  the  lovely  Galla  Placidia 
at  Ravenna.  It  is  a building  essentially  un- 
Roman  ; that  is  to  say,  the  Romanism  that 
clings  to  it  is  accidental  and  adds  nothing  to 
its  significance.  The  mosaics  within,  how- 
ever, are  still  coarsely  classical.  There  is  a 
nasty,  woolly  realism  about  the  sheep,  and 
about  the  good  shepherd  more  than  a sus- 
picion of  the  stodgy,  Graeco-Roman,  Apollo. 
Imitation  still  fights,  though  it  fights  a 
losing  battle,  with  significant  form.  When 
S.  Vitale  was  begun  in  526  the  battle  was 
won.  Sta.  Sophia  at  Constantinople  was 
building  between  532  and  537  ; the  finest 
mosaics  in  S.  Vitale,  S.  Apollinare-Nuovo 
and  S.  Apollinare-in-Classe  belong  to  the 
sixth  century  ; so  do  SS.  Sergius  and  Bacchus 
at  Constantinople  and  the  Duomo  at  Parenzo. 

128 


THE  RISE  OF  CHRISTIAN  ART 


In  fact,  to  the  sixth  century  belong  the  most 
majestic  monuments  of  Byzantine  art.  It 
is  the  primitive  and  supreme  summit  of 
the  Christian  slope.  The  upward  spring 
from  the  levels  of  Graeco-Romanism  is  im- 
measurable. The  terms  in  which  it  could 
be  stated  have  yet  to  be  discovered.  It 
is  the  whole  length  of  the  slope  from  Sta. 
Sophia  to  the  Victoria  Memorial  pushed 
upright  to  stand  on  a base  of  a hundred 
years.  We  are  on  heights  from  which 
the  mud-flats  are  invisible ; resting  here, 
one  can  hardly  believe  that  the  flats  ever 
were,  or,  at  any  rate,  that  they  will  ever  be 
again.  Go  to  Ravenna,  and  you  will  see 
the  masterpieces  of  Christian  art,  the  primi- 
tives of  the  slope:  go  to  the  Tate  Gallery 
or  the  Luxembourg,  and  you  will  see  the 
end  of  that  slope — Christian  art  at  its  last 
gasp.  These  memento  mori  are  salutary  in 
an  age  of  assurance  when,  looking  at  the 
pictures  of  Cezanne,  we  feel,  not  inexcusably, 
that  we  are  high  above  the  mud  and 
malaria.  Between  Cezanne  and  another 
Tate  Gallery,  what  lies  in  store  for  the 
human  spirit?  Are  we  in  the  period  of 
a new  incubation  ? Or  is  the  new  age 
born  ? Is  it  a new  slope  that  we  are  on, 
or  are  we  merely  part  of  a surprisingly 
129  1 


ART 


vigorous  premonitory  flutter?  These  are 
queries  to  ponder.  Is  Cezanne  the  begin- 
ning of  a slope,  a portent,  or  merely  the 
crest  of  a movement  ? The  oracles  are 
dumb.  This  alone  seems  to  me  sure  : since 
the  Byzantine  primitives  set  their  mosaics 
at  Ravenna  no  artist  in  Europe  has  created 
forms  of  greater  significance  unless  it  be 
Cezanne. 

With  Sta.  Sophia  at  Constantinople,  and 
the  sixth  century  churches  and  mosaics  at 
Ravenna,  the  Christian  slope  establishes  itself 
in  Europe.1  In  the  same  century  it  took 
a downward  twist  at  Constantinople ; but  in 
one  part  of  Europe  or  another  the  new  inspi- 
ration continued  to  manifest  itself  supremely 
for  more  than  six  hundred  years.  There 
were  ups  and  downs,  of  course,  movements 
and  reactions ; in  some  places  art  was  almost 
always  good,  in  others  it  was  never  first- 
rate  ; but  there  was  no  universal,  irreparable 

1 I am  not  being  so  stupid  as  to  suggest  that  in  the 
sixth  century  the  Hellenistic  influence  died.  It  persisted 
for  another  300  years  at  least.  In  sculpture  and  ivory 
carving  it  was  only  ousted  by  the  Romanesque  movement 
of  the  eleventh  century.  Inevitably  a great  deal  of  Hel- 
lenistic stuff  continued  to  be  produced  after  the  rise  of 
Byzantine  art.  For  how  many  years  after  the  maturity 
of  Cezanne  will  painters  continue  to  produce  chromopho- 
tographs? Hundreds  perhaps.  For  all  that,  Cdzanne 
marks  a change — the  birth  of  a movement  if  not  of  a slope. 

13O 


THE  RISE  OF  CHRISTIAN  ART 


depreciation  till  Norman  and  Romanesque 
architecture  gave  way  to  Gothic,  till  twelfth- 
century  sculpture  became  thirteenth-century 
figuration. 

Christian  art  preserved  its  primitive  signi- 
ficance for  more  than  half  a millennium. 
Therein  I see  no  marvel.  Even  ideas  and 
emotions  travelled  slowly  in  those  days.  In 
one  respect,  at  any  rate,  trains  and  steam- 
boats have  fulfilled  the  predictions  of  their 
exploiters — they  have  made  everything  move 
faster : the  mistake  lies  in  being  quite  so 
positive  that  this  is  a blessing.  In  those 
dark  ages  things  moved  slowly ; that  is  one 
reason  why  the  new  force  had  not  spent 
itself  in  six  hundred  years.  Another  is 
that  the  revelation  came  to  an  age  that 
was  constantly  breaking  fresh  ground. 
Always  there  was  a virgin  tract  at  hand 
to  take  the  seed  and  raise  a lusty  crop. 
Between  500  and  1000  a.d.  the  population 
of  Europe  was  fluid.  Some  new  race  was 
always  catching  the  inspiration  and  feeling 
and  expressing  it  with  primitive  sensibility 
and  passion.  The  last  to  be  infected  was 
one  of  the  finest ; and  in  the  eleventh 
century  Norman  power  and  French  intelli- 
gence produced  in  the  west  of  Europe  a 
manifestation  of  the  Christian  ferment  only 
J3T 


ART 


a little  inferior  to  that  which  five  hundred 
years  earlier  had  made  glorious  the  East. 

Let  me  insist  once  again  that,  when  1 
speak  of  the  Christian  ferment  or  the 
Christian  slope,  I am  not  thinking  of  dog- 
matic religion.  I am  thinking  of  that 
religious  spirit  of  which  Christianity,  with 
its  dogmas  and  rituals,  is  one  manifestation, 
Buddhism  another.  And  when  I speak  of 
art  as  a manifestation  of  the  religious  spirit 
1 do  not  mean  that  art  expresses  particular 
religious  emotions,  much  less  that  it  ex- 
presses anything  theological.  I have  said 
that  if  art  expresses  anything,  it  expresses 
an  emotion  felt  for  pure  form  and  that 
which  gives  pure  form  its  extraordinary 
significance.  So,  when  I speak  of  Christian 
art,  I mean  that  this  art  was  one  product 
of  that  state  of  enthusiasm  of  which  the 
Christian  Church  is  another.  So  far  was 
the  new  spirit  from  being  a mere  ebullition 
of  Christian  faith  that  we  find  manifestations 
of  it  in  Mohammedan  art ; everyone  who 
has  seen  a photograph  of  the  Mosque  of 
Omar  at  Jerusalem  knows  that.  The 
emotional  renaissance  in  Europe  was  not 
the  wide-spreading  of  Christian  doctrines, 
but  it  was  through  Christian  doctrine  that 
Europe  came  to  know  of  the  rediscovery 
132 


THE  RISE  OF  CHRISTIAN  ART 


of  the  emotional  significance  of  the  Universe. 
Christian  art  is  not  an  expression  of  specific 
Christian  emotions ; but  it  was  only  when 
men  had  been  roused  by  Christianity  that 
they  began  to  feel  the  emotions  that  express 
themselves  in  form.  It  was  Christianity 
that  put  Europe  into  that  state  of  emotional 
turmoil  from  which  sprang  Christian  art. 

For  a moment,  in  the  sixth  century,  the 
flood  of  enthusiasm  seems  to  have  carried 
the  Eastern  world,  even  the  official  world, 
off  its  feet.  But  Byzantine  officials  were 
no  fonder  of  swimming  than  others.  The 
men  who  worked  the  imperial  machine, 
studied  the  Alexandrine  poets,  and  dabbled 
in  classical  archaeology  were  not  the  men 
to  look  forward.  Only  the  people,  led  by 
the  monks,  were  vaguely,  and  doubtless 
stupidly,  on  the  side  of  emotion  and  the 
future.  Soon  after  Justinian’s  death  the 
Empire  began  to  divide  itself  into  two 
camps.  Appropriately,  religious  art  was  the 
standard  of  the  popular  party,  and  around 
that  standard  the  battle  raged.  “ No  man,” 
said  Lord  Melbourne,  “ has  more  respect  for 
the  Christian  religion  than  I ; but  when  it 
comes  to  dragging  it  into  private  life  . . .” 
At  Constantinople  they  began  dragging 
religion,  and  art  too,  into  the  sanctity  of 

*33 


ART 


private  capital.  Now,  no  official  worth  his 
salt  can  watch  the  shadow  being  recklessly 
sacrificed  to  the  substance  without  itching 
to  set  the  police  on  somebody ; and  the 
vigilance  and  sagacity  of  Byzantine  civilians 
has  become  proverbial.  We  learn  from  a 
letter  written  by  Pope  Gregory  II  to  the 
Emperor  Leo,  the  iconoclast,  that  men  were 
willing  to  give  their  estates  for  a picture. 
This,  to  Pope,  Emperor,  and  Mr.  Finlay 
the  historian,  was  proof  enough  of  appalling 
demoralisation.  For  a parallel,  I suppose, 
they  recalled  the  shameful  imprudence  of 
the  Magdalene.  There  were  people  at  Con- 
stantinople who  took  art  seriously,  though 
in  a rather  too  literary  spirit — “ dicunt  enim 
artem  pictoriam  piam  esse.”  This  sort  of 
thing  had  to  be  stopped.  Early  in  the 
eighth  century  began  the  iconoclast  on- 
slaught. The  history  of  that  hundred  years’ 
war,  in  which  the  popular  party  carried 
on  a spirited  and  finally  successful  resistance, 
does  not  concern  us.  One  detail,  however, 
is  worth  noticing.  During  the  iconoclast 
persecution  a new  popular  art  makes  its  ap- 
pearance in  and  about  those  remote  monas- 
teries that  were  the  strongholds  of  the 
mystics.  Of  this  art  the  Chloudof  Psalter 
is  the  most  famous  example.  Certainly  the 
134 


THE  RISE  OF  CHRISTIAN  ART 

art  of  the  Chloudof  Psalter  is  not  great, 
A desire  to  be  illustrative  generally  mars 
both  the  drawing  and  the  design.  It  mars, 
but  does  not  utterly  ruin ; in  many  of 
the  drawings  something  significant  persists. 
There  is,  however,  always  too  much  realism 
and  too  much  literature.  But  neither  the 
realism  nor  the  literature  is  derived  from 
classical  models.  The  work  is  essentially 
original.  It  is  also  essentially  popular. 

Indeed,  it  is  something  of  a party  pamphlet ; 
and  in  one  place  we  see  the  Emperor  and 
his  cabinet  doing  duty  as  a conclave  of  the 
damned.  It  would  be  easy  to  overrate  the 
artistic  value  of  the  Chloudof  Psalter,  but 
as  a document  it  is  of  the  highest  import- 
ance, because  it  brings  out  clearly  the 
opposition  between  the  official  art  of  the 
iconoclasts  that  leaned  on  the  Hellenistic 
tradition  and  borrowed  bluntly  from  Bagdad, 
and  the  vital  art  that  drew  its  inspiration 
from  the  Christian  movement  and  trans- 
muted all  its  borrowing  into  something  new. 
Side  by  side  with  this  live  art  of  the  Christian 
movement  we  shall  see  a continuous  output 
of  work  based  on  the  imitation  of  classical 
models.  Those  coarse  and  dreary  objects 
that  crop  up  more  or  less  frequently  in 
early  Byzantine,  Merovingian,  Carolingian, 
135 


ART 


Ottonian,  Romanesque,  and  early  Italian  art, 
are  not,  however,  an  inheritance  from  the 
iconoclastic  period  ; they  are  the  long  shadow 
thrown  across  history  by  the  gigantic  finger 
of  imperial  Rome.  The  mischief  done  by 
the  iconoclasts  was  not  irreparable,  but  it 
was  grave.  True  to  their  class,  Byzantine 
officials  indulged  a taste  for  furniture,  giving 
thereby  an  unintentional  sting  to  their  attack. 
Like  the  grandees  of  the  Classical  Renais- 
sance, they  degraded  art,  which  is  a religion, 
to  upholstery,  a menial  trade.  They  patro- 
nised craftsmen  who  looked  not  into  their 
hearts,  but  into  the  past — who  from  the 
court  of  the  Kalif  brought  pretty  patterns, 
and  from  classical  antiquity  elegant  illusions, 
to  do  duty  for  significant  design.  They 
looked  to  Greece  and  Rome  as  did  the  men  of 
the  Renaissance,  and,  like  them,  lost  in  the 
science  of  representation  the  art  of  creation. 
In  the  age  of  the  iconoclasts,  modelling — the 
coarse  Roman  modelling — begins  to  bulge 
and  curl  luxuriously  at  Constantinople.  The 
eighth  century  in  the  East  is  a portent  of 
the  sixteenth  in  the  West.  It  is  the  restora- 
tion of  materialism  with  its  paramour,  obse- 
quious art.  The  art  of  the  iconoclasts  tells 
us  the  story  of  their  days ; it  is  descriptive, 
official,  eclectic, historical,  plutocratic, palatial, 
136 


THE  RISE  OF  CHRISTIAN  ART 


And  vulgar.  Fortunately,  its  triumph  was 
partial  and  ephemeral. 

For  art  was  still  too  vigorous  to  be 
strangled  by  a pack  of  cultivated  mandarins. 
In  the  end  the  mystics  triumphed.  Under 
the  Regent  Theodora  (842)  the  images  were 
finally  restored  ; under  the  Basilian  dynasty 
(867-1057)  and  under  the  Comneni  Byzan- 
tine art  enjoyed  a second  golden  age.  And 
though  I cannot  rate  the  best  Byzantine 
art  of  the  ninth,  tenth,  eleventh,  and  twelfth 
centuries  quite  so  high  as  I rate  that  of  the 
sixth,  I am  inclined  to  hold  it  superior,  not 
only  to  anything  that  was  to  come,  but  also 
to  the  very  finest  achievement  of  the  greatest 
ages  of  Egypt,  Crete,  and  Greece. 


x37 


II 

GREATNESS  AND  DECLINE 

Having  glanced  at  the  beginnings  of  Chris- 
tian art,  we  must  not  linger  over  the  history 
of  Byzantine.  Eastern  traders  and  artisans, 
pushing  into  Western  Europe  from  the 
Adriatic  and  along  the  valley  of  the  Rhone, 
carried  with  them  the  ferment.  Monks 
driven  out  of  the  East  by  the  iconoclast 
persecutions  found  Western  Europe  Chris- 
tian and  left  it  religious.  The  strength 
of  the  movement  in  Europe  between  500 
and  900  is  commonly  under-rated.  That  is 
partly  because  its  extant  monuments  are 
not  obvious.  Buildings  are  the  things  to 
catch  the  eye,  and,  outside  Ravenna,  there 
is  comparatively  little  Christian  architecture 
of  this  period.  Also  the  cultivated,  spoon- 
fed art  of  the  renaissance  court  of  Charle- 
magne is  too  often  allowed  to  misrepresent 
one  age  and  disgust  another.  Of  course  the 
bulk  of  those  opulent  knick-knacks  manu- 

138 


GREATNESS  AND  DECLINE 


factured  for  the  Carolingian  and  Ottonian 
Emperors,  and  now  to  be  seen  at  Aachen, 
are  as  beastly  as  anything  else  that  is  made 
simply  to  be  precious.  They  reflect  German 
taste  at  its  worst ; and,  in  tracing  the  line, 
or  estimating  the  value,  of  the  Christian  slope 
it  is  prudent  to  overlook  even  the  best  of 
Teutonic  effort.1  For  the  bulk  of  it  is  not 
primitive  or  mediaeval  or  renaissance  art, 
but  German  art.  At  any  rate  it  is  a mani- 
festation of  national  character  rather  than 
of  aesthetic  inspiration.  Most  aesthetic 
creation  bears  the  mark  of  nationality ; very 
few  manifestations  of  German  nationality  bear 
a trace  of  aesthetic  creation.  The  differences 
between  the  treasures  of  Aachen,  early  German 
architecture,  fifteenth-century  German  sculp- 
ture, and  the  work  produced  to-day  at  Munich 
are  superficial.  Almost  all  is  profoundly 
German,  and  nothing  else.  That  is  to  say,  it 
is  conscientious,  rightly  intentioned,  exces- 
sively able,  and  lacking  in  just  that  which  dis- 
tinguishes a work  of  art  from  everything  else 

1 It  will  be  found  instructive  to  study  cases  10-14  of 
enamels  and  metal-work  at  South  Kensington.  The  tyro 
will  have  no  difficulty  in  “spotting”  the  German  and 
Rheinish  productions.  Alas  ! the  only  possible  mistake 
would  be  a confusion  between  German  and  English. 
Certainly  the  famous  Gloucester  candlestick  (1100)  is  as 
common  as  anything  in  the  place,  unless  it  be  the  even 
more  famous  Cologne  Reliquary  (1170). 

J39 


ART 


in  the  world.  The  inspiration  and  sensi- 
bility of  the  dark  ages  can  be  felt  most  surely 
and  most  easily  in  the  works  of  minor  art 
produced  in  France  and  Italy.1  In  Italy, 
however,  there  is  enough  architecture  to 
prove  up  to  the  hilt,  were  further  proof  re- 
quired, that  the  spirit  was  vigorous.  It  is 
the  age  of  what  Sig.  Rivoira  calls  Pre-Lom- 
bard ic  Architecture — Italian  Byzantine:  it  is 
the  age  of  the  Byzantine  school  of  painting 
at  Rome.2 

What  the  “ Barbarians  ” did,  indirectly, 
for  art  cannot  be  over-estimated.  They 
almost  extinguished  the  tradition  of  cul- 
ture, they  began  to  destroy  the  bogey  of 
imperialism,  they  cleaned  the  slate.  They 
were  able  to  provide  new  bottles  for  the 
new  wine.  Artists  can  scarcely  repress 
their  envy  when  they  hear  that  academic 
painters  and  masters  were  sold  into  slavery 
by  the  score.  The  Barbarians  handed  on 
the  torch  and  wrought  marvels  in  its  light. 
But  in  those  days  men  were  too  busy 


1 Patriots  can  take  pleasure  in  the  study  of  Saxon 
sculpture. 

2 Several  schools  of  painting  and  drawing  flourished 
during  these  centuries  in  Italy  and  north  of  the  Alps. 
In  S.  Clemente  alone  it  is  easy  to  discover  the  work  of 
two  distinct  periods  between  600  and  900.  The  extant 
examples  of  both  are  superb. 

I40 


GREATNESS  AND  DECLINE 

fighting  and  ploughing  and  praying  to  have 
much  time  for  anything  else.  Material 
needs  absorbed  their  energies  without  fatten- 
ing them ; their  spiritual  appetite  was  fero- 
cious, but  they  had  a live  religion  as  well 
as  a live  art  to  satisfy  it.  It  is  supposed 
that  in  the  dark  ages  insecurity  and  want 
reduced  humanity  to  something  little  better 
than  bestiality.  To  this  their  art  alone 
gives  the  lie,  and  there  is  other  evidence. 
If  turbulence  and  insecurity  could  reduce 
people  to  bestiality,  surely  the  Italians  of 
the  ninth  century  were  the  men  to  roar 
and  bleat.  Constantly  harassed  by  Saracens, 
Hungarians,  Greeks,  French,  and  every  sort 
of  German,  they  had  none  of  those  en- 
couragements to  labour  and  create  which 
in  the  vast  security  of  the  pax  Romana  and 
the  pax  Britatinica  have  borne  such  glorious 
fruits  of  private  virtue  and  public  magni- 
ficence. Yet  in  898  Hungarian  scouts  re- 
port that  northern  Italy  is  thickly  populated 
and  full  of  fortified  towns.1  At  the  sack 
of  Parma  (924)  forty-four  churches  were 
burnt,  and  these  churches  were  certainly 
more  like  Santa  Maria  di  Pomposa  or  San 
Pietro  at  Toscanella  than  the  Colosseum 
or  the  Royal  Courts  of  Justice.  That  the 

* The  Making  of  Western  Europe : C.  L.  R.  Fletcher. 

I4I 


ART 


artistic  output  of  the  dark  ages  was  to 
some  extent  limited  by  its  poverty  is  not 
to  be  doubted ; nevertheless,  more  first- 
rate  art  was  produced  in  Europe  between 
the  years  500  and  900  than  was  produced 
in  the  same  countries  between  1450  and 
1850. 

For  in  estimating  the  artistic  value  of  a 
period  one  tends  first  to  consider  the  splen- 
dour of  its  capital  achievements.  After 
that  one  reckons  the  quantity  of  first-rate 
work  produced.  Lastly,  one  computes  the 
proportion  of  undeniable  works  of  art  to 
the  total  output.  In  the  dark  ages  the 
proportion  seems  to  have  been  high.  This 
is  a characteristic  of  primitive  periods. 
The  market  is  too  small  to  tempt  a crowd 
of  capable  manufacturers,  and  the  condi- 
tions of  life  are  too  severe  to  support  the 
ordinary  academy  or  salon  exhibitor  who 
lives  on  his  private  means  and  takes  to  art 
because  he  is  unfit  for  anything  else.  This 
sort  of  producer,  whose  existence  tells  us 
less  about  the  state  of  art  than  about  the 
state  of  society,  who  would  be  the  worst 
navvy  in  his  gang  or  the  worst  trooper  in 
his  squadron,  and  is  the  staple  product  of 
official  art  schools,  is  unheard  of  in  primi- 
tive ages.  In  drawing  inferences,  therefore, 
142 


GREATNESS  AND  DECLINE 


we  must  not  overlook  the  advantage  en- 
joyed by  barbarous  periods  in  the  fact  that 
of  those  who  come  forward  as  artists  the 
vast  majority  have  some  real  gift.  I would 
hazard  a guess  that  of  the  works  that  sur- 
vive from  the  dark  age  as  high  a propor- 
tion as  one  in  twelve  has  real  artistic 
value.  Were  a proportion  of  the  work 
produced  between  1450  and  1850  identical 
with  that  of  the  work  produced  between 
500  and  900  to  survive,  it  might  very  well 
happen  that  it  would  not  contain  a single 
work  of  art.  In  fact,  we  tend  to  see  only 
the  more  important  things  of  this  period 
and  to  leave  unvisited  the  notorious  trash. 
Yet  judging  from  the  picked  works  brought 
to  our  notice  in  galleries,  exhibitions,  and 
private  collections,  I cannot  believe  that 
more  than  one  in  a hundred  of  the  works 
produced  between  1450  and  1850  can  be 
properly  described  as  a work  of  art. 

Between  900  and  1200  the  capital 
achievements  of  Christian  art  are  not 
superior  in  quality  to  those  of  the  pre- 
ceding age — indeed,  they  fall  short  of  the 
Byzantine  masterpieces  of  the  sixth  cen- 
tury ; but  the  first-rate  art  of  this  second 
period  was  more  abundant,  or,  at  any  rate, 
has  survived  more  successfully,  than  that  of 
H3 


ART 


the  first.  The  age  that  has  bequeathed 
us  Romanesque,  Lombardic,  and  Norman 
architecture  gives  no  sign  of  dissolution.  We 
are  still  on  the  level  heights  of  the  Chris- 
tian Renaissance.  Artists  are  still  primitive. 
Men  still  feel  the  significance  of  form 
sufficiently  to  create  it  copiously.  Increased 
wealth  purchases  increased  leisure,  and  some 
of  that  leisure  is  devoted  to  the  creation 
of  art.  I do  not  marvel,  therefore,  at  the 
common,  though  I think  inexact,  opinion 
that  this  was  the  period  in  which  Christian 
Europe  touched  the  summit  of  its  spiritual 
history : its  monuments  are  everywhere 
majestic  before  our  eyes.  Not  only  in 
France,  Italy,  and  Spain,  but  in  England, 
and  as  far  afield  as  Denmark,  Norway, 
and  Sweden,  we  can  see  the  triumphs  of 
Romanesque  art.  This  was  the  last  level 
stage  on  the  long  journey  from  Santa 
Sophia  to  St.  John’s  Wood. 

With  Gothic  architecture  the  descent 
began.  Gothic  architecture  is  juggling  in 
stone  and  glass.  It  is  the  convoluted  road 
that  ends  in  a bridecake  or  a cucumber 
frame.  A Gothic  cathedral  is  a tour  de  force  ; 
it  is  also  a melodrama.  Enter,  and  you  will 
be  impressed  by  the  incredible  skill  of  the 
constructor ; perhaps  you  will  be  impressed 
1 44 


GREATNESS  AND  DECLINE 


by  a sense  of  dim  mystery  and  might ; you 
will  not  be  moved  by  pure  form.  You  may 
groan  “ A-a-h  ” and  collapse  : you  will  not 
be  strung  to  austere  ecstasy.  Walk  round 
it,  and  take  your  pleasure  in  subtleties  of  the 
builder’s  craft,  quaint  corners,  gargoyles,  and 
flying  buttresses,  but  do  not  expect  the  thrill 
that  answers  the  perception  of  sheer  right- 
ness of  form.  In  architecture  the  new  spirit 
first  came  to  birth ; in  architecture  first  it 
dies. 

We  find  the  spirit  alive  at  the  very  end  of 
the  twelfth  century  in  Romanesque  sculpture 
and  in  stained  glass  : we  can  see  it  at  Chartres 
and  at  Bourges.  At  Bourges  there  is  an  indi- 
cation of  the  way  things  are  going  in  the  fact 
that  in  an  unworthy  building  we  find  glass 
and  some  fragments  of  sculpture  worthy  of 
Chartres,  and  not  unworthy  of  any  age  or 
place.  Cimabue  and  Duccio  are  the  last  great 
exponents  in  the  West  of  the  greater  tradi- 
tion— the  tradition  that  held  the  essential 
everything  and  the  accidental  nothing.  For 
with  Duccio,  at  any  rate,  the  sense  of  form 
was  as  much  traditional  as  vital : and  the 
great  Cimabue  is  Jin  de  siecle . They  say 
that  Cimabue  died  in  1302;  Duccio  about 
fifteen  years  later.  With  Giotto  (born  1 27 6), 
a greater  artist  than  either,  we  turn  a corner 
145  K 


ART 


as  sharp  as  that  which  had  been  turned  a 
hundred  years  earlier  with  the  invention  of 
Gothic  architecture  in  France.  For  Giotto 
could  be  intentionally  second-rate.  He  was 
capable  of  sacrificing  form  to  drama  and 
anecdote.  He  never  left  the  essential  out, 
but  he  sometimes  knocked  its  corners  off. 
He  was  always  more  interested  in  art  than 
in  St.  Francis,  but  he  did  not  always  re- 
member that  St.  Francis  has  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  art.  In  theory  that  is  right 
enough ; the  Byzantines  had  believed  that 
they  were  more  interested  in  dogmatic 
theology  than  in  form,  and  almost  every 
great  artist  has  had  some  notion  of  the  sort 
Indeed,  it  seems  that  there  is  nothing  so 
dangerous  for  an  artist  as  consciously  to 
care  about  nothing  but  art.  For  an  artist  to 
believe  that  his  art  is  concerned  with  religion 
or  politics  or  morals  or  psychology  or 
scientific  truth  is  well ; it  keeps  him  alive 
and  passionate  and  vigorous  : it  keeps  him 
up  out  of  sentimental  aestheticism  : it  keeps 
to  hand  a suitable  artistic  problem.  But  for 
an  artist  not  to  be  able  to  forget  all  about 
these  things  as  easily  as  a man  who  is  playing 
a salmon  forgets  his  lunch  is  the  devil. 
Giotto  lacked  facility  in  forgetting.  There 
are  frescoes  in  which,  failing  to  grasp  the 
146 


GREATNESS  AND  DECLINE 


significance  of  a form,  he  allows  it  to  state 
a fact  or  suggest  a situation.  Giotto  went 
higher  than  Cimabue  but  he  often  aimed 
lower.  Compare  his  “ Virgin  and  Child  ” in 
the  Accademia  with  that  of  Cimabue  in  the 
same  gallery,  and  you  will  see  how  low  his 
humanism  could  bring  him.  The  coarse 
heaviness  of  the  forms  of  that  woman  and 
her  baby  is  unthinkable  in  Cimabue ; for 
Cimabue  had  learnt  from  the  Byzantines  that 
forms  should  be  significant  and  not  life-like. 
Doubtless  in  the  minds  of  both  there  was 
something  besides  a preoccupation  with 
formal  combinations ; but  Giotto  has  allowed 
that  “ something  ” to  dominate  his  design, 
Cimabue  has  forced  his  design  to  dominate 
it.  There  is  something  protestant  about 
Giotto’s  picture.  He  is  so  dreadfully 
obsessed  by  the  idea  that  the  humanity  of 
the  mother  and  child  is  the  important  thing 
about  them  that  he  has  insisted  on  it  to  the 
detriment  of  his  art.  Cimabue  was  incapable 
of  such  commonness.  Therefore  make  the 
comparison — it  is  salutary  and  instructive ; 
and  then  go  to  Santa  Croce  or  the  Arena 
Chapel  and  admit  that  if  the  greatest  name 
in  European  painting  is  not  Cezanne  it  is 
Giotto. 

From  the  peak  that  is  Giotto  the  road 
147 


ART 


falls  slowly  but  steadily.  Giotto  heads  a 
movement  towards  imitation  and  scientific 
picture- making.  A genius  such  as  his  was 
bound  to  be  the  cause  of  a movement ; it 
need  not  have  been  the  cause  of  such  a 
movement.  But  the  spirit  of  an  age  is 
stronger  than  the  echoes  of  tradition,  sound 
they  never  so  sweetly.  And  the  spirit  of 
that  age,  as  every  extension  lecturer  knows, 
moved  towards  Truth  and  Nature,  away 
from  supernatural  ecstasies.  There  is  a 
moment  at  which  the  spirit  begins  to  crave 
for  Truth  and  Nature,  for  naturalism  and 
verisimilitude ; in  the  history  of  art  it  is 
known  as  the  early  decadence.  Nevertheless, 
on  naturalism  and  materialism  a constant 
war  is  waged  by  one  or  two  great  souls 
athirst  for  pure  aesthetic  rapture ; and  this 
war,  strangely  enough,  is  invariably  described 
by  the  extension  lecturer  as  a fight  for  Truth 
and  Nature.  Never  doubt  it,  in  a hundred 
years  or  less  they  will  be  telling  their  pupils 
that  in  an  age  of  extreme  artificiality  arose 
two  men,  Cezanne  and  Gaugin,  who,  by 
simplicity  and  sincerity,  led  back  the  world 
to  the  haunts  of  Truth  and  Nature. 
Strangest  of  all,  some  part  of  what  they  say 
will  be  right. 

The  new  movement  broke  up  the  great 
148 


GREATNESS  AND  DECLINE 


Byzantine  tradition,1  and  left  the  body  of 
art  a victim  to  the  onslaught  of  that  strange, 
new  disease,  the  Classical  Renaissance.  The 
tract  that  lies  between  Giotto  and  Lionardo 
is  the  beginning  of  the  end  ; but  it  is  not 
the  end.  Painting  came  to  maturity  late, 
and  died  hard  ; and  the  art  of  the  fourteenth 
and  fifteenth  centuries — especially  the  Tuscan 
schools — is  not  a mere  historical  link : it  is 
an  important  movement,  or  rather  two.  The 
great  Sienese  names,  Ugolino,  Ambrogio 
Lorenzetti,2  and  Simone  Martini,  belong  to 
the  old  world  as  much  as  to  the  new ; but 
the  movement  that  produced  Masaccio, 
Masolino,  Castagno,  Donatello,  Piero  della 
Francesca,  and  Fra  Angelico  is  a reaction  from 
the  Giottesque  tradition  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  and  an  extremely  vital  movement. 
Often,  it  seems,  the  stir  and  excitement  pro- 
voked by  the  ultimately  disastrous  scientific 
discoveries  were  a cause  of  good  art.  It  was 

1 Throughout  the  whole  primitive  and  middle  period, 
however,  two  tendencies  are  distinguishable — one  vital, 
derived  from  Constantinople,  the  other,  dead  and  swollen, 
from  imperial  Rome.  Up  to  the  thirteenth  century  the 
Byzantine  influence  is  easily  predominant.  I have  often 
thought  that  an  amusing  book  might  be  compiled  in 
which  the  two  tendencies  would  be  well  distinguished 
and  illustrated.  In  Pisa  and  its  neighbourhood  the 
author  will  find  a surfeit  of  Romanised  primitives. 

2 Pietro  is,  of  course,  nearer  to  Giotto. 

H9 


ART 


the  disinterested  adoration  of  perspective,  I 
believe,  that  enabled  Uccello  and  the  Paduan 
Mantegna  to  apprehend  form  passionately. 
The  artist  must  have  something  to  get  into 
a passion  about. 

Outside  Italy,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  the  approaches  of  spiritual 
bankruptcy  are  more  obvious,  though  here, 
too,  painting  makes  a better  fight  than  archi- 
tecture. Seven  hundred  years  of  glorious 
and  incessant  creation  seem  to  have  exhausted 
the  constructive  genius  of  Europe.  Gothic 
architecture  becomes  something  so  nauseous 1 
that  one  can  only  rejoice  when,  in  the  six- 
teenth century,  the  sponge  is  thrown  up  for 
good,  and,  abandoning  all  attempt  to  create, 
Europe  settles  down  quietly  to  imitate  clas- 
sical models.  All  true  creation  was  dead 
long  before  that ; its  epitaph  had  been  com- 
posed by  the  master  of  the  “ Haute  CEuvre  ” 
at  Beauvais.  Only  intellectual  invention 
dragged  on  a sterile  and  unlucky  existence. 
A Gothic  church  of  the  late  Middle  Ages 
is  a thing  made  to  order.  A building 
formula  has  been  devised  within  which  the 

1 Owing  to  the  English  invention  of  “ Perpendicular,” 
the  least  unsatisfactory  style  of  Gothic  architecture,  the 
English  find  it  hard  to  realise  the  full  horrors  of  late 
Gothic. 


150 


GREATNESS  AND  DECLINE 


artificer,  who  has  ousted  the  artist,  finds 
endless  opportunity  for  displaying  his 
address.  The  skill  of  the  juggler  and  the 
taste  of  the  pastrycook  are  in  great  demand 
now  that  the  power  to  feel  and  the  genius 
to  create  have  been  lost.  There  is  brisk 
trade  in  pretty  things ; buildings  are  stuck 
all  over  with  them.  Go  and  peer  at  each 
one  separately  if  you  have  a tooth  for  cheap 
sweet-meats. 

Painting,  outside  Italy,  was  following 
more  deliberately  the  road  indicated  by 
architecture.  In  illuminated  manuscripts  it 
is  easy  to  watch  the  steady  coarsening  of 
line  and  colour.  By  the  beginning  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  Limoges  enamels  have 
fallen  into  that  state  of  damnation  from 
which  they  have  never  attempted  to  rise. 
Of  trans-Alpine  figuration  after  1250  the 
less  said  the  better.  If  in  Italian  painting 
the  slope  is  more  gentle,  that  is  partly  because 
the  spirit  of  the  Byzantine  renaissance  died 
harder  there,  partly  because  the  descent 
was  broken  by  individual  artists  who  rose 
superior  to  their  circumstances.  But  here, 
too,  intellect  is  filling  the  void  left  by  emo- 
tion ; science  and  culture  are  doing  their 
work.  By  the  year  1500  the  stream  of  in- 
spiration had  grown  so  alarmingly  thin  that 

*5* 


ART 


there  was  only  just  enough  to  turn  the 
wheels  of  the  men  of  genius.  The  minor 
artists  seem  already  prepared  to  resign  them- 
selves to  the  inevitable.  Since  we  are  no 
longer  artists  who  move,  let  us  be  craftsmen 
who  astonish.  ’Tis  a fine  thing  to  tempt 
urchins  with  painted  apples : that  makes  the 
people  stare.  To  be  sure,  such  feats  are 
rather  beneath  the  descendants  of  Giotto ; 
we  leave  them  to  the  Dutchmen,  whom  we 
envy  a little  all  the  same.  We  have  lost 
art ; let  us  study  the  science  of  imitation. 
Here  is  a field  for  learning  and  dexterity. 
And,  as  our  patrons  who  have  lost  their 
aesthetic  perceptions  have  not  lost  all  their 
senses,  let  us  flatter  them  with  grateful 
objects : let  our  grapes  and  girls  be  as  lus- 
cious as  lifelike.  But  the  patrons  are  not 
all  sensualists ; some  of  them  are  scholars. 
The  trade  in  imitations  of  the  antique  is 
almost  as  good  as  the  trade  in  imitations  of 
nature.  Archaeology  and  connoisseurship, 
those  twin  ticks  on  palsied  art,  are  upon  us. 
To  react  to  form  a man  needs  sensibility; 
to  know  whether  rules  have  been  respected 
knowledge  of  these  rules  alone  is  necessary. 
By  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century  art  is 
becoming  a question  of  rules ; appreciation 
a matter  of  connoisseurship. 

I52 


GREATNESS  AND  DECLINE 

Literature  is  never  pure  art.  Very  little 
literature  is  a pure  expression  of  emotion ; 
none,  I think  is  an  expression  of  pure  in- 
human emotion.  Most  of  it  is  concerned, 
to  some  extent,  with  facts  and  ideas : it  is 
intellectual.  Therefore  literature  is  a mis- 
leading guide  to  the  history  of  art.  Its 
history  is  the  history  of  literature  ; and  it  is 
a good  guide  to  the  history  of  thought. 
Yet  sometimes  literature  will  provide  the 
historian  of  art  with  a pretty  piece  of  col- 
lateral evidence.  For  instance,  the  fact  that 
Charles  the  Great  ordained  that  the  Frankish 
songs  should  be  collected  and  written  down 
makes  a neat  pendant  to  the  renaissance  art 
of  Aachen.  People  who  begin  to  collect 
have  lost  the  first  fury  of  creation.  The 
change  that  came  over  plastic  art  in  France 
towards  the  end  of  the  twelfth  century  is 
reflected  in  the  accomplished  triviality  of 
Chretien  de  Troyes.  The  eleventh  century 
had  produced  the  Chanson  de  Roland , a poem 
as  grand  and  simple  as  a Romanesque  church. 
Chrdtien  de  Troyes  melted  down  the  massive 
conceptions  of  his  betters  and  twisted  them 
into  fine-spun  conceits.  He  produced  a 
poem  as  pinnacled,  deft,  and  insignificant  as 
Rouen  Cathedral.  In  literature,  as  in  the 
visual  arts,  Italy  held  out  longest,  and,  when 

153 


ART 


she  fell,  fell  like  Lucifer,  never  to  rise  again 
In  Italy  there  was  no  literary  renaissance ; 
there  was  just  a stirring  of  the  rubbish  heap. 
If  ever  man  was  a full-stop,  that  man  was 
Boccaccio.  Dante  died  at  Ravenna  in  1321. 
His  death  is  a landmark  in  the  spiritual 
history  of  Europe.  Behind  him  lies  that 
which,  taken  with  the  Divina  Commedia , has 
won  for  Italy  an  exaggerated  literary  reputa- 
tion. In  the  thirteenth  century  there  was 
plenty  of  poetry  hardly  inferior  to  the 
Lamento  of  Rinaldo  ; in  the  fourteenth  comes 
Petrarch  with  the  curse  of  mellifluous  phrase- 
making. 

May  God  forget  me  if  I forget  the  great 
Italian  art  of  the  fifteenth  century.  But,  a 
host  of  individual  geniuses  and  a cloud  of 
admirable  painters  notwithstanding,  the  art 
of  the  fifteenth  century  was  further  from 
grace  than  that  of  the  Giottesque  painters  of 
the  fourteenth.  And  the  whole  output  of 
the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries  is  im- 
measurably inferior  to  the  great  Byzantine 
and  Romanesque  production  of  the  eleventh 
and  twelfth.  Indeed,  it  is  inferior  in  quality, 
if  not  in  quantity,  to  the  decadent  Byzantine 
and  Italian  Byzantine  of  the  thirteenth. 
Therefore  I will  say  that,  already  at  the  end 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  though  Castagno 
H4 


GREATNESS  AND  DECLINE 

and  Masolino  and  Gentile  da  Fabriano  and 
Fra  Angelico  were  alive,  and  Masaccio  and 
Piero  and  Bellini  had  yet  to  be  born,  it 
looked  as  if  the  road  that  started  from 
Constantinople  in  the  sixth  century  were 
about  to  end  in  a glissade.  From  Buda-Pest 
to  Sligo,  “ late  Gothic  ” stands  for  some- 
thing as  foul  almost  as  “ revival.”  Having 
come  through  the  high  passes,  Europe,  it 
seemed,  was  going  to  end  her  journey  by 
plunging  down  a precipice.  Perhaps  it  would 
have  been  as  well ; but  it  was  not  to  be. 
The  headlong  rush  was  to  be  checked.  The 
descent  was  to  be  eased  by  a strange  detour, 
by  a fantastic  adventure,  a revival  that  was 
no  re-birth,  a Medea’s  cauldron  rather,  an 
extravagant  disease  full  of  lust  and  laughter  ; 
the  life  of  the  old  world  was  to  be  prolonged 
by  four  hundred  years  or  so,  by  the  galva- 
nising power  of  the  Classical  Renaissance. 


i5S 


Ill 


THE  CLASSICAL  RENAISSANCE 
AND  ITS  DISEASES 

The  Classical  Renaissance  is  nothing  more 
than  a big  kink  in  the  long  slope  ; but  it  is 
a very  big  one.  It  is  an  intellectual  event. 
Emotionally  the  consumption  that  was  wast- 
ing Europe  continued  to  run  its  course ; 
the  Renaissance  was  a mere  fever-flash. 
To  literature,  however,  its  importance  is 
immense  : for  literature  can  make  itself 
independent  of  spiritual  health,  and  is  as 
much  concerned  with  ideas  as  with  emotions. 
Literature  can  subsist  in  dignity  on  ideas. 
Finlay’s  history  of  the  Byzantine  Empire 
provokes  no  emotion  worth  talking  about, 
yet  I would  give  Mr.  Finlay  a place  amongst 
men  of  letters,  and  I would  do  as  much  for 
Hobbes,  Mommsen,  Sainte-Beuve,  Samuel 
Johnson,  and  Aristotle.  Great  thinking  with- 
out great  feeling  will  make  great  literature. 
It  is  not  for  their  emotional  qualities  that 

iS6 


THE  CLASSICAL  RENAISSANCE 


we  value  many  of  our  most  valued  books 
And  when  it  is  for  an  emotional  quality,  to 
what  extent  is  that  emotion  aesthetic  ? I know 
how  little  the  intellectual  and  factual  content 
of  great  poetry  has  to  do  with  its  significance. 
The  actual  meaning  of  the  words  in  Shake- 
speare’s songs,  the  purest  poetry  in  English, 
is  generally  either  trivial  or  trite.  They  are 
nursery-rhymes  or  drawing-room  ditties  ; — 

“ Come  away,  come  away,  death, 

And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid  ; 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath  ; 

I am  slain  by  a fair  cruel  maid.” 

Could  anything  be  more  commonplace  ? 

“ Hark,  hark  ! 

Bow,  wow, 

The  watch-dogs  bark  ; 

Bow,  wow, 

Hark,  hark  ! I hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-diddle-dow  ! ” 

What  could  be  more  nonsensical  ? In  the 
verse  of  our  second  poet,  Milton — so  great 
that  before  his  name  the  word  “ second  ” 
rings  false  as  the  giggle  of  fatuity — the 
ideas  are  frequently  shallow  and  the  facts 
generally  false.  In  Dante,  if  the  ideas  are 

157 


ART 


sometimes  profound  and  the  emotions  awful, 
they  are  also,  as  a rule,  repugnant  to  our 
better  feelings : the  facts  are  the  hoardings 
of  a parish  scold.  In  great  poetry  it  is  the 
formal  music  that  makes  the  miracle.  The 
poet  expresses  in  verbal  form  an  emotion 
but  distantly  related  to  the  words  set  down. 
But  it  is  related  ; it  is  not  a purely  artistic 
emotion.  In  poetry  form  and  its  significance 
are  not  everything ; the  form  and  the  con- 
tent are  not  one.  Though  some  of  Shake- 
speare’s songs  approach  purity,  there  is,  in 
fact,  an  alloy.  The  form  is  burdened  with 
an  intellectual  content,  and  that  content  is 
a mood  that  mingles  with  and  reposes  on 
the  emotions  of  life.  That  is  why  poetry, 
though  it  has  its  raptures,  does  not  trans- 
port us  to  that  remote  aesthetic  beatitude 
in  which,  freed  from  humanity,  we  are  up- 
stayed  by  musical  and  pure  visual  form. 

The  Classical  Renaissance  was  a new 
reading  of  human  life,  and  what  it  added 
to  the  emotional  capital  of  Europe  was  a new 
sense  of  the  excitingness  of  human  affairs. 
If  the  men  and  women  of  the  Renaissance 
were  moved  by  Art  and  Nature,  that  was 
because  in  Art  and  Nature  they  saw  their 
own  reflections.  The  Classical  Renaissance 
was  not  a re-birth  but  a re-discovery  ; and 
i58 


THE  CLASSICAL  RENAISSANCE 


that  superb  mess  of  thought  and  observa- 
tion, lust,  rhetoric,  and  pedantry,  that  we 
call  Renaissance  literature,  is  its  best  and 
most  characteristic  monument.  What  it  re- 
discovered were  the  ideas  from  the  heights 
of  which  the  ancients  had  gained  a view  of 
life.  This  view  the  Renaissance  borrowed. 
By  doing  so  it  took  the  sting  out  of  the 
spiritual  death  of  the  late  Middle  Ages.  It 
showed  men  that  they  could  manage  very 
well  without  a soul.  It  made  materialism 
tolerable  by  showing  how  much  can  be  done 
with  matter  and  intellect.  That  was  its 
great  feat.  It  taught  men  how  to  make 
the  best  of  a bad  job ; it  proved  that  by 
cultivating  the  senses  and  setting  the  in- 
tellect to  brood  over  them  it  is  easy  to 
whip  up  an  emotion  of  sorts.  When  men 
had  lost  sight  of  the  spirit  it  covered  the 
body  with  a garment  of  glamour. 

That  the  Classical  Renaissance  was  essen- 
tially an  intellectual  movement  is  proved, 
I think,  by  the  fact  that  it  left  the  un- 
educated classes  untouched  almost.  They 
suffered  from  its  consequences  ; it  gave  them 
nothing.  A wave  of  emotion  floods  the 
back-gardens ; an  intellectual  stream  is  kept 
within  the  irrigation  channels.  The  Classical 
Renaissance  made  absolute  the  divorce  of 


ART 


the  classes  from  the  masses.  The  mediaeval 
lord  in  his  castle  and  the  mediaeval  hind 
in  his  hut  were  spiritual  equals  who  thought 
and  felt  alike,  held  the  same  hopes  and 
fears,  and  shared,  to  a surprising  extent,  the 
pains  and  pleasures  of  a simple  and  rather 
cruel  society.  The  Renaissance  changed  all 
that.  The  lord  entered  the  new  world  of 
ideas  and  refined  sensuality ; the  peasant 
stayed  where  he  was,  or,  as  the  last  vestiges 
of  spiritual  religion  began  to  disappear  with 
the  commons,  sank  lower.  Popular  art 
changed  so  gradually  that  in  the  late 
fifteenth  and  in  the  sixteenth  century  we 
still  find,  in  remote  corners,  things  that 
are  rude  but  profoundly  moving.  Village 
masons  could  still  create  in  stone  at  the 
time  when  Jacques  Coeur  was  building 
himself  the  first  “ residence  worthy  of  a 
millionaire  ” that  had  been  “ erected  ” since 
the  days  of  Honorius.  But  that  popular 
art  pursued  the  downhill  road  sedately  while 
plutocratic  art  went  with  a run  is  a curious 
accident  of  which  the  traces  are  soon  lost ; 
the  outstanding  fact  is  that  with  the  Re- 
naissance Europe  definitely  turns  her  back 
on  the  spiritual  view  of  life.  With  that 
renunciation  the  power  of  creating  signi- 
ficant form  becomes  the  inexplicable  gift  of 
160 


THE  CLASSICAL  RENAISSANCE 


the  occasional  genius.  Here  and  there  an 
individual  produces  a work  of  art,  so  art 
comes  to  be  regarded  as  something  essen- 
tially sporadic  and  peculiar.  The  artist  is 
reckoned  a freak.  We  are  in  the  age  of 
names  and  catalogues  and  genius-worship, 
Now,  genius-worship  is  the  infallible  sign 
of  an  uncreative  age.  In  great  ages,  though 
we  may  not  all  be  geniuses,  many  of  us  are 
artists,  and  where  there  are  many  artists  art 
tends  to  become  anonymous. 

The  Classical  Renaissance  was  something 
different  in  kind  from  what  I have  called 
the  Christian  Renaissance.  It  must  be  placed 
somewhere  between  1350  and  1600.  Place 
it  where  you  will.  For  my  part  I always 
think  of  it  as  the  gorgeous  and  well-cut 
garment  of  the  years  that  fall  between  1453 
and  1594,  between  the  capture  of  Con- 
stantinople and  the  death  of  Tintoretto. 
To  me,  it  is  the  age  of  Lionardo,  of 
Charles  VIII  and  Francis  I,  of  Cesare  Borgia 
and  Leo  X,  of  Raffael,  of  Machiavelli,  and 
of  Erasmus,  who  carries  us  on  to  the  second 
stage,  the  period  of  angry  ecclesiastical 
politics,  of  Clement  VII,  Fontainebleau, 
Rabelais,  Titian,  Palladio,  and  Vasari.  But, 
on  any  computation,  in  the  years  that  lie 
between  the  spiritual  exaltation  of  the  early 
1 6 1 L 


ART 


twelfth  century  and  the  sturdy  materialism 
of  the  late  sixteenth  lies  the  Classical  Re- 
naissance. Whatever  happened,  happened 
between  those  dates.  And  all  that  did 
happen  was  nothing  more  than  a change 
from  late  manhood  to  early  senility  com- 
plicated by  a house-moving,  bringing  with 
it  new  hobbies  and  occupations.  The  de- 
cline from  the  eleventh  to  the  seventeenth 
century  is  continuous  and  to  be  foreseen ; 
the  change  from  the  world  of  Aurelian  to 
the  world  of  Gregory  the  Great  is  cata- 
strophic. Since  the  Christian  Renaissance, 
new  ideas  and  knowledge  notwithstanding, 
the  world  has  grown  rotten  with  decency 
and  order.  It  takes  more  than  the  re- 
discovery of  Greek  texts  and  Graeco-Roman 
statues  to  provoke  the  cataclysms  and  earth- 
quakes with  which  it  grew  young. 

The  art  of  the  High  Renaissance  was 
conditioned  by  the  demands  of  its  patrons. 
There  is  nothing  odd  about  that ; it  is  a 
recognised  stage  in  the  rake’s  progress.  The 
patrons  of  the  Renaissance  wanted  plenty  of 
beauty  of  the  kind  dear  to  the  impression- 
able stock-jobber.  Only,  the  plutocrats  of 
the  sixteenth  century  had  a delicacy  and 
magnificence  of  taste  which  would  have 
made  the  houses  and  manners  of  modern 
162 


THE  CLASSICAL  RENAISSANCE 


stock-jobbers  intolerable  to  them.  Renais- 
sance millionaires  could  be  vulgar  and  brutal, 
but  they  were  great  gentlemen.  They  were 
neither  illiterate  cads  nor  meddlesome  puri- 
tans, nor  even  saviours  of  society.  Yet,  if 
we  are  to  understand  the  amazing  popularity 
of  Titian’s  and  of  Veronese’s  women,  we 
must  take  note  of  their  niceness  to  kiss  and 
obvious  willingness  to  be  kissed.  That 
beauty  for  which  can  be  substituted  the 
word  “desirableness,”  and  that  insignificant 
beauty  which  is  the  beauty  of  gems,  were  in 
great  demand.  Imitation  was  wanted,  too ; 
for  if  pictures  are  to  please  as  suggestions 
and  mementoes,  the  objects  that  suggest 
and  remind  must  be  adequately  portrayed. 
These  pictures  had  got  to  stimulate  the 
emotions  of  life,  first ; aesthetic  emotion 
was  a secondary  matter.  A Renaissance 
picture  was  meant  to  say  just  those  things 
that  a patron  would  like  to  hear.  That 
way  lies  the  end  of  art : however  wicked  it 
may  be  to  try  to  shock  the  public,  it  is 
not  so  wicked  as  trying  to  please  it. 
But  whatever  the  Italian  painters  of  the 
Renaissance  had  to  say  they  said  in  the 
grand  manner.  Remember,  we  are  not 
Dutchmen.  Therefore  let  all  your  figures 
suggest  the  appropriate  emotion  by  means 
163 


ART 


of  the  appropriate  gesture — the  gesture 
consecrated  by  the  great  tradition.  Strain- 
ing limbs,  looks  of  love,  hate,  envy,  fear  and 
horror,  up-turned  or  downcast  eyes,  hands 
outstretched  or  clasped  in  despair — by  means 
of  our  marvellous  machinery,  and  still  more 
marvellous  skill,  we  can  give  them  all  they 
ask  without  forestalling  the  photographers. 
But  we  are  not  recounters  all,  for  some  of 
our  patrons  are  poets.  To  them  the  visible 
Universe  is  suggestive  of  moods  or,  at  any 
rate,  sympathetic  with  them.  These  value 
objects  for  their  association  with  the  fun  and 
folly  and  romance  of  life.  For  them,  too, 
we  paint  pictures,  and  in  their  pictures  we 
lend  Nature  enough  humanity  to  make  her 
interesting.  My  lord  is  lascivious  ? Cor- 
reggio  will  give  him  a background  to  his 
mood.  My  lord  is  majestic  ? Michelangelo 
will  tell  him  that  man  is,  indeed,  a noble 
animal  whose  muscles  wriggle  heroically  as 
watch-springs.  The  sixteenth  century  pro- 
duced a race  of  artists  peculiar  in  their 
feeling  for  material  beauty,  but  normal, 
coming  as  they  do  at  the  foot  of  the  hills, 
in  their  technical  proficiency  and  aesthetic 
indigence.  Craft  holds  the  candle  that 
betrays  the  bareness  of  the  cupboard.  The 
aesthetic  significance  of  form  is  feebly  and 


THE  CLASSICAL  RENAISSANCE 


impurely  felt,  the  power  of  creating  it  is 
lost  almost ; but  finer  descriptions  have 
rarely  been  painted.  They  knew  how  to 
paint  in  the  sixteenth  century : as  for  the 
primitives — God  bless  them — they  did  their 
best : what  more  could  they  do  when  they 
couldn’t  even  round  a lady’s  thighs  ? 

The  Renaissance  was  a re-birth  of  other 
things  besides  a taste  for  round  limbs  and 
the  science  of  representing  them ; we  begin 
to  hear  again  of  two  diseases,  endemic  in 
imperial  Rome,  from  which  a lively  and 
vigorous  society  keeps  itself  tolerably  free 
— Rarity- hunting  and  Expertise.  These 
parasites  can  get  no  hold  on  a healthy 
body ; it  is  on  dead  and  dying  matter  that 
they  batten  and  grow  fat.  The  passion  to 
possess  what  is  scarce,  and  nothing  else,  is 
a disease  that  develops  as  civilisation  grows 
old  and  dogs  it  to  the  grave : it  is  sapro- 
phytic. The  rarity-hunter  may  be  called  a 
“collector”  if  by  “collector”  you  do  not 
mean  one  who  buys  what  pleases  or  moves 
him.  Certainly,  such  an  one  is  unworthy  of 
the  name ; he  lacks  the  true  magpie  instinct. 
To  the  true  collector  the  intrinsic  value  of  a 
work  of  art  is  irrelevant ; the  reasons  for 
which  he  prizes  a picture  are  those  for  which 
a philatelist  prizes  a postage-stamp.  To  him 

i65 


ART 


the  question  “ Does  this  move  me  ? " is 
ludicrous  : the  question  c<  Is  it  beautiful  ? ” 
— otiose.  Though  by  the  very  tasteful 

collector  of  stamps  or  works  of  art  beauty  is 
allowed  to  be  a fair  jewel  in  the  crown  of 
rarity,  he  would  have  us  understand  from 
the  first  that  the  value  it  gives  is  purely 
adventitious  and  depends  for  its  existence 
on  rarity.  No  rarity,  no  beauty.  As  for 
the  profounder  aesthetic  significance,  if  a 
man  were  to  believe  in  its  existence  he 
would  cease  to  be  a collector.  The  question 
to  be  asked  is — “ Is  this  rare  ? ” Suppose  the 
answer  favourable,  there  remains  another — 
“ Is  it  genuine  ? ” If  the  work  of  any 
particular  artist  is  not  rare,  if  the  supply 
meets  the  demand,  it  stands  to  reason  that 
the  work  is  of  no  great  consequence.  For 
good  art  is  art  that  fetches  good  prices,  and 
good  prices  come  of  a limited  supply.  But 
though  it  be  notorious  that  the  work  of 
Velasquez  is  comparatively  scarce  and  there- 
fore good,  it  has  yet  to  be  decided  whether 
the  particular  picture  offered  at  fifty  thou- 
sand is  really  the  work  of  Velasquez. 

Enter  the  Expert,  whom  I would  dis- 
tinguish from  the  archaeologist  and  the 
critic.  The  archaeologist  is  a man  with  a 
foolish  and  dangerous  curiosity  about  the 
166 


THE  CLASSICAL  RENAISSANCE 


past : I am  a bit  of  an  archaeologist  myself. 
Archaeology  is  dangerous  because  it  may 
easily  overcloud  one’s  aesthetic  sensibility. 
The  archaeologist  may,  at  any  moment, 
begin  to  value  a work  of  art  not  because  it 
is  good,  but  because  it  is  old  or  interesting. 
Though  that  is  less  vulgar  than  valuing  it 
because  it  is  rare  and  precious  it  is  equally 
fatal  to  aesthetic  appreciation.  But  so  long 
as  I recognise  the  futility  of  my  science,  so 
long  as  I recognise  that  I cannot  appreciate 
a work  of  art  the  better  because  I know 
when  and  where  it  was  made,  so  long  as  I 
recognise  that,  in  fact,  I am  at  a certain 
disadvantage  in  judging  a sixth-century 
mosaic  compared  with  a person  of  equal 
sensibility  who  knows  and  cares  nothing 
about  Romans  and  Byzantines,  so  long  as  I 
recognise  that  art  criticism  and  archaeology 
are  two  different  things,  I hope  I may  be 
allowed  to  dabble  unrebuked  in  my  favourite 
hobby : I hope  I am  harmless. 

Art  criticism,  in  the  present  state  of 
society,  seems  to  me  a respectable  and  pos- 
sibly a useful  occupation.  The  prejudice 
against  critics,  like  most  prejudices,  lives  on 
fear  and  ignorance.  It  is  quite  unnecessary 
and  rather  provincial,  for,  in  fact,  critics  are  not 
very  formidable.  They  are  suspected  of  all 
167 


ART 


sorts  of  high-handed  practices — making  and 
breaking  reputations,  running  up  and  down, 
booming  and  exploiting — of  which  I should 
hardly  think  them  capable.  Popular  opinion 
notwithstanding,  I doubt  whether  critics  are 
either  omnipotent  or  utterly  depraved.  In- 
deed, I believe  that  some  of  them  are  not 
only  blameless  but  even  lovable  characters. 
Those  sinister  but  flattering  insinuations  and 
open  charges  of  corruption  fade  woe- 
fully when  one  considers  how  little  the 
critic  of  contemporary  art  can  hope  to  get 
for  “ writing  up  ” pictures  that  sell  for 
twenty  or  thirty  guineas  apiece.  The  ex- 
pert, to  be  sure,  is  exposed  to  some  tempta- 
tion, since  a few  of  his  words,  judiciously 
placed,  may  promote  a canvas  from  the 
twenty  to  the  twenty  thousand  mark : but, 
as  everyone  knows,  the  morality  of  the 
expert  is  above  suspicion.  Useless  as  the 
occupation  of  the  critic  may  be,  it  is  prob- 
ably honest ; and,  after  all,  is  it  more 
useless  than  all  other  occupations,  save  only 
those  of  creating  art,  producing  food,  drink, 
and  tobacco,  and  bearing  beautiful  children  ? 

If  the  collector  asks  me,  as  a critic,  for  my 
opinion  of  the  Velasquez  he  is  about  to  buy, 
I will  tell  him  honestly  what  I think  of  it, 
as  a work  of  art.  I will  tell  him  whether  it 
1 68 


THE  CLASSICAL  RENAISSANCE 


moves  me  much  or  little,  and  I will  try  to 
point  out  those  qualities  and  relations  of  line 
and  colour  in  which  it  seems  to  me  to  excel 
or  fall  short.  I will  try  to  account  for  the 
decree  of  mv  aesthetic  emotion.  That,  I 
conceive,  is  the  function  of  the  critic.  But 
all  conjectures  as  to  the  authenticity  of  a 
work  based  on  its  formal  significance,  or  even 
on  its  technical  perfection,  are  extremely 
hazardous.  It  is  always  possible  that  some- 
one else  was  the  master’s  match  as  artist  and 
craftsman,  and  of  that  someone’s  work  there 
may  be  an  overwhelming  supply.  The  critic 
may  sell  the  collector  a common  pup  instead 
of  the  one  uncatalogued  specimen  of  Pseudo- 
kuniskos ; and  therefore  the  wary  collector 
sends  for  someone  who  can  furnish  him  with 
the  sort  of  evidence  of  the  authenticity  of 
his  picture  that  would  satisfy  a special  jury- 
man and  confound  a purchasing  dealer.  At 
artistic  evidence  he  laughs  noisily  in  half- 
crown  periodicals  and  five-guinea  tomes. 
Documentary  evidence  is  what  he  prefers  ; 
but,  failing  that,  he  will  put  up  with  a 
cunning  concoction  of  dates  and  water- 
marks,  cabalistic  signatures,  craquelure,  pa- 
tina, chemical  properties  of  paint  and 
medium,  paper  and  canvas,  all  sorts  of  col- 
lateral evidence,  historical  and  biographical, 
169 


ART 


and  racy  tricks  of  brush  or  pen.  It  is  to 
adduce  and  discuss  this  sort  of  evidence  that 
the  Collector  calls  in  the  Expert. 

Anyone  whom  chance  or  misfortune  has 
led  into  the  haunts  of  collectors  and  experts 
will  admit  that  I have  not  exaggerated  the 
horror  of  the  diseases  that  we  have  inherited 
from  the  Classical  Renaissance.  He  will 
have  heard  the  value  of  a picture  made  to 
depend  on  the  interpretation  of  a letter.  He 
will  have  heard  the  picture  discussed  from 
every  point  of  view  except  that  of  one  who 
feels  its  significance.  By  whom  was  it  made  ? 
For  whom  was  it  made  ? When  was  it  made  ? 
Where  was  it  made  ? Is  it  all  the  work  of 
one  hand  ? Who  paid  for  it  ? How  much 
did  he  pay  ? Through  what  collections  has 
it  passed  ? What  are  the  names  of  the 
figures  portrayed  ? What  are  their  histories  ? 
What  the  style  and  cut  of  their  coats,  breeches, 
and  beards  ? How  much  will  it  fetch  at 
Christie’s  ? All  these  are  questions  to  moot ; 
and  mooted  they  will  be,  by  the  hour.  But 
in  expert  conclaves  who  has  ever  heard  more 
than  a perfunctory  and  silly  comment  on  the 
aesthetic  qualities  of  a masterpiece  ? 

We  have  seen  the  scholars  at  loggerheads 
over  the  genuineness  of  a picture  in  the 
National  Gallery.  The  dispute  rages  round 
170 


THE  CLASSICAL  RENAISSANCE 


the  interpretation  of  certain  marks  in  the 
corner  of  the  canvas.  Are  they,  or  are  they 
not,  a signature  ? Whatever  the  final  de- 
cision may  be,  the  picture  will  remain  un- 
changed ; but  if  it  can  be  proved  that  the 
marks  are  the  signature  of  the  disciple,  it 
will  be  valueless.  If  the  Venus  of  Velasquez 
should  turn  out  to  be  a Spanish  model  by 
del  Mazo,  the  great  ones  who  guide  us  and 
teach  the  people  to  love  art  will  see  to  it,  I 
trust,  that  the  picture  is  moved  to  a position 
befitting  its  mediocrity.  It  is  this  unholy 
alliance  between  Expertise  and  Officialdom  1 
that  squanders  twenty  thousand  on  an  unim- 
peachable Frans  Hals,  and  forty  thousand  on 
a Mabuse  for  which  no  minor  artist  will  wish 
to  take  credit.2  For  the  money  a judicious 
purchaser  could  have  made  one  of  the  finest 
collections  in  England.  The  unholy  alliance 

1 In  speaking  of  officialdom  it  is  not  the  directors  of 
galleries  and  departments  whom  I have  in  mind.  Many 
of  them  are  on  the  right  side  ; we  should  all  be  delighted 
to  see  Sir  Charles  Holroyd  or  Mr.  Maclagan,  for  in- 
stances, let  loose  amongst  the  primitives  with  forty  thou- 
sand pounds  in  pocket.  I am  thinking  of  those  larger 
luminaries  who  set  their  important  faces  against  the 
acquisition  of  works  of  art,  the  men  who  have  been  put 
in  authority  over  directors  and  the  rest  of  us. 

a The  Mabuse,  however,  was  a bargain  that  the  mer- 
chants and  money-lenders  who  settle  these  things  could 
hardly  be  expected  to  resist.  The  ticket  price  is  said  to 
have  been  ;£  120,000. 


ART 


has  no  use  for  contemporary  art.  The  supply 
is  considerable  and  the  names  are  not  historic. 
Snobbery  makes  acceptable  the  portrait  of  a 
great  lady,  though  it  be  by  Boldini ; and  even 
Mr.  Lavery  may  be  welcome  if  he  come  with 
the  picture  of  a king.  But  how  are  our 
ediles  to  know  whether  a picture  of  a com- 
moner, or  of  some  inanimate  and  undistin- 
guished object,  by  Degas  or  Cezanne  is  good 
or  bad  ? They  need  not  know  whether  a 
picture  by  Hals  is  good ; they  need  only 
know  that  it  is  by  Hals. 

I will  not  describe  in  any  detail  the  end  of 
the  slope,  from  the  beginning  of  the  seven- 
teenth to  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  The  seventeenth  century  is  rich 
in  individual  geniuses ; but  they  are  in- 
dividual. The  level  of  art  is  very  low. 
The  big  names  of  El  Greco,  Rembrandt, 
Velasquez,  Vermeer,  Rubens,  Jordaens, 
Poussin,  and  Claude,  Wren  and  Bernini  (as 
architects)  stand  out ; had  they  lived  in  the 
eleventh  century  they  might  all  have  been 
lost  in  a crowd  of  anonymous  equals. 
Rembrandt,  indeed,  perhaps  the  greatest 
genius  of  them  all,  is  a typical  ruin  of  his 
age.  For,  except  in  a few  of  his  later  works, 
his  sense  of  form  and  design  is  utterly  lost  in 
a mess  of  rhetoric,  romance,  and  chiaroscuro. 
172 


THE  CLASSICAL  RENAISSANCE 


It  is  difficult  to  forgive  the  seventeenth 
century  for  what  it  made  of  Rembrandt’s 
genius.  One  great  advantage  over  its  pre- 
decessor it  did  enjoy : the  seventeenth 

century  had  ceased  to  believe  sincerely  in 
the  ideas  of  the  Classical  Renaissance. 
Painters  could  not  devote  themselves  to 
suggesting  the  irrelevant  emotions  of  life 
because  they  did  not  feel  them.1  For  lack 
of  human  emotion  they  were  driven  back  on 
art.  They  talked  a great  deal  about  Magna- 
nimity and  Nobility,  but  they  thought  more 
of  Composition.  For  instance,  in  the  best 
works  of  Nicolas  Poussin,  the  greatest  artist 
of  the  age,  you  will  notice  that  the  human 
figure  is  treated  as  a shape  cut  out  of 
coloured  paper  to  be  pinned  on  as  the  com- 
position directs.  That  is  the  right  way  to 
treat  the  human  figure ; the  mistake  lay  in 
making  these  shapes  retain  the  characteristic 
gestures  of  Classical  rhetoric.  In  much  the 
same  way  Claude  treats  temples  and  palaces, 
trees,  mountains,  harbours  and  lakes,  as  you 
may  see  in  his  superb  pictures  at  the  National 
Gallery.  There  they  hang,  beside  the 
Turners,  that  all  the  world  may  see  the 
difference  between  a great  artist  and  an 


1 It  was  Mr.  Roger  Fry  who  made  this  illuminating 
discovery. 


173 


ART 


after-dinner  poet.  Turner  was  so  much 
excited  by  his  observations  and  his  senti- 
ments that  he  set  them  all  down  without 
even  trying  to  co-ordinate  them  in  a work  of 
art : clearly  he  could  not  have  done  so  in 
any  case.  That  was  a cheap  and  spiteful 
thought  that  prompted  the  clause  wherein  it 
is  decreed  that  his  pictures  shall  hang  for 
ever  beside  those  of  Claude.  He  wished  to 
call  attention  to  a difference  and  he  has 
succeeded  beyond  his  expectations : curses, 
like  hens,  come  home  to  roost. 

In  the  eighteenth  century,  with  its  dearth 
of  genius,  we  perceive  more  clearly  that  we 
are  on  the  flats.  Chardin  is  the  one  great 
artist.  Painters  are,  for  the  most  part, 
upholsterers  to  the  nobility  and  gentry. 
Some  fashion  handsome  furniture  for  the 
dining-room,  others  elegant  knick-knacks 
for  the  boudoir ; many  are  kept  constantly 
busy  delineating  for  the  respect  of  future 
generations  his  lordship,  or  her  ladyship’s 
family.  The  painting  of  the  eighteenth 
century  is  brilliant  illustration  still  touched 
with  art.  For  instance,  in  Watteau,  Cana- 
letto, Crome,  Cotman,  and  Guardi  there  is 
some  art,  some  brilliance,  and  a great  deal 
of  charming  illustration.  In  Tiepolo  there 
is  hardly  anything  but  brilliance  ; only  when 
174 


THE  CLASSICAL  RENAISSANCE 


one  sees  his  work  beside  that  of  Mr.  Sargent 
does  one  realise  the  presence  of  other  quali- 
ties. In  Hogarth  there  is  hardly  anything 
but  illustration ; one  realises  the  presence 
of  other  qualities  only  by  remembering  the 
work  of  the  Hon.  John  Collier.  Beside 
the  upholsterers  who  work  for  the  aris- 
tocracy there  is  another  class  supported  by 
the  connoisseurs.  There  are  the  conscien- 
tious bores,  whose  modest  aim  it  is  to  paint 
and  draw  correctly  in  the  manner  of  Raffael 
and  Michelangelo.  Their  first  object  is  to 
stick  to  the  rules,  their  second  to  show 
some  cleverness  in  doing  so.  One  need 
not  bother  about  them. 

So  the  power  of  creating  is  almost  lost, 
and  limners  must  be  content  to  copy  pretty 
things.  The  twin  pillars  of  painting  in 
the  eighteenth  century  were  what  they 
called  “Subject”  and  “Treatment.”  To 
paint  a beautiful  picture,  a boudoir  picture, 
take  a pretty  woman,  note  those  things 
about  her  that  a chaste  and  civil  dinner- 
partner  might  note,  and  set  them  down  in 
gay  colours  and  masses  of  Chinese  white : 
you  may  do  the  same  by  her  toilette  battery, 
her  fancy  frocks,  and  picnic  parties.  Imitate 
whatever  is  pretty  and  you  are  sure  to 
make  a pretty  job  of  it.  To  make  a noble 
175 


ART 


picture,  a dining-room  piece,  you  must  take 
the  same  lady  and  invest  her  in  a Doric 
chiton  or  diploida  and  himation ; give  her 
a pocillum,  a censer,  a sacrificial  ram,  and 
a distant  view  of  Tivoli ; round  your  model- 
ling, and  let  your  brush-strokes  be  long 
and  slightly  curved  ; affect  sober  and  rather 
hot  pigments  ; call  the  finished  article  “ Dido 
pouring  libations  to  the  Goddess  of  Love.” 
To  paint  an  exhibition  picture,  the  sort 
preferred  by  the  more  rigid  cognoscenti , be 
sure  to  make  no  mark  for  which  warrant 
cannot  be  found  in  Rubens,  Sarto,  Guido 
Reni,  Titian,  Tintoretto,  Veronese,  Raffael, 
Michelangelo,  or  Trajan’s  Column.  For 
further  information  consult  “ The  Dis- 
courses” of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  P.R.A., 
whose  recipes  are  made  palatable  by  a quality 
infrequent  in  his  dishes,  luminosity. 

The  intellectual  reaction  from  Classical 
to  Romantic  is  duly  registered  by  a change 
of  subject.  Ruins  and  mediaeval  history 
come  into  fashion.  For  art,  which  is  as 
little  concerned  with  the  elegant  bubbles  of 
the  eighteenth  century  as  with  the  foaming 
superabundance  of  the  Romantic  revival, 
this  change  is  nothing  more  than  the  swing 
of  an  irrelevant  pendulum.  But  the  new 
ideas  led  inevitably  to  antiquarianism,  and 
1 76 


THE  CLASSICAL  RENAISSANCE 


antiquarians  found  something  extraordinarily 
congenial  in  what  was  worst  in  Gothic  art. 
Obedient  limners  follow  the  wiseacres. 
What  else  is  there  for  them  to  follow  ? 
Stragglers  from  the  age  of  reason  are  set 
down  to  trick  out  simpering  angels.  No 
longer  permitted  to  stand  on  the  laws  of 
propriety  or  their  personal  dignity,  they 
are  ordered  to  sweeten  their  cold  meats 
with  as  much  amorous  and  religious  senti- 
ment as  they  can  exude.  Meanwhile  the 
new  fellows,  far  less  sincere  than  the  old, 
who  felt  nothing  and  said  so,  begin  to 
give  themselves  the  airs  of  artists.  These 
Victorians  are  intolerable : for  now  that 

they  have  lost  the  old  craft  and  the  old 
tradition  of  taste,  the  pictures  that  they 
make  are  no  longer  pleasantly  insignificant ; 
they  bellow  “ stinking  mackerel. ” 

About  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury art  was  as  nearly  dead  as  art  can  be. 
The  road  ran  drearily  through  the  sea- 
level  swamps.  There  were,  of  course,  men 
who  felt  that  imitation,  whether  of  nature 
or  of  another’s  work,  was  not  enough,  who 
felt  the  outrage  of  calling  the  staple  pro- 
ducts of  the  “forties”  and  “fifties”  art; 
but  generally  they  lacked  the  power  to  make 
an  effective  protest.  Art  cannot  die  out 
177  m 


ART 


utterly ; but  it  lay  sick  in  caves  and  cellars. 
There  were  always  one  or  two  who  had  a right 
to  call  themselves  artists : the  great  Ingres 1 
overlaps  Crome  ; Corot  and  Daumier  overlap 
Ingres ; and  then  come  the  Impressionists. 
But  the  mass  of  painting  and  sculpture  had 
sunk  to  something  that  no  intelligent  and 
cultivated  person  would  dream  of  calling 
art.  It  was  in  those  days  that  they  in- 
vented the  commodity  which  is  still  the 
staple  of  official  exhibitions  throughout 
Europe.  You  may  see  acres  of  it  every 
summer  at  Burlington  House  and  in  the 
Salon  ; indeed,  you  may  see  little  else  there. 
It  does  not  pretend  to  be  art.  If  the 
producers  mistake  it  for  art  sometimes, 
they  do  so  in  all  innocence  : they  have  no 
notion  of  what  art  is.  By  “ art  ” they 
mean  the  imitation  of  objects,  preferably 
pretty  or  interesting  ones ; their  spokes- 
men have  said  so  again  and  again.  The 

1 It  is  pleasant  to  remember  that  by  the  painters,  critics, 
and  rich  amateurs  of  “ the  old  gang  ” the  pictures  of  Ingres 
were  treated  as  bad  jokes.  I ngres  was  accused  of  distortion, 
ugliness,  and  even  of  incompetence  ! His  work  was  called 
“ mad  ” and  “ puerile.”  He  was  derided  as  a pseudo-primi- 
tive, and  hated  as  one  who  would  subvert  the  great  tradi- 
tion by  trying  to  put  back  the  clock  four  hundred  years. 
The  same  authorities  discovered  in  1824  that  Constable’s 
Hay  Wain  was  the  outcome  of  a sponge  full  of  colour 
having  been  thrown  at  a canvas.  Nous  avons  changi 
tout  f a . 

178 


THE  CLASSICAL  RENAISSANCE 


sort  of  thing  that  began  to  do  duty  for  art 
about  1840,  and  still  passes  muster  with 
the  lower  middle  class,  would  have  been 
inconceivable  at  any  time  between  the  fall 
of  the  Roman  Empire  and  the  death  of 
George  IV.  Even  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, when  they  could  not  create  significant 
form,  they  knew  that  accurate  imitation 
was  of  no  value  in  itself.  It  is  not 
until  what  is  still  official  painting  and 
sculpture  and  architecture  gets  itself  ac- 
cepted as  a substitute  for  art,  that  we  can 
say  for  certain  that  the  long  slope  that 
began  with  the  Byzantine  primitives  is 
ended.  But  when  we  have  reached  this 

point  we  know  that  we  can  sink  no  lower. 

We  must  mark  the  spot  near  which  a 
huge  impulse  died  ; but  we  need  not  linger 
in  the  fetid  swamps — or  only  long  enough 
to  say  a word  of  justice.  Do  not  rail  too 
bitterly  against  official  painters,  living  or 
dead.  They  cannot  harm  art,  because  they 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it:  they  are  not 
artists.  If  rail  you  must,  rail  at  that  public 
which,  having  lost  all  notion  of  what  art 
is,  demanded,  and  still  demands,  in  its 
stead,  the  thing  that  these  painters  can 
supply.  Official  painting  is  the  product  of 
social  conditions  which  have  not  yet  passed 
179 


ART 


away.  Thousands  of  people  who  care 
nothing  about  art  are  able  to  buy  and  are 
in  the  habit  of  buying  pictures.  They 
want  a background,  just  as  the  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  the  ancien  regime  wanted  one ; 
only  their  idea  of  what  a background  should 
be  is  different.  The  painter  of  commerce 
supplies  what  is  wanted  and  in  his  sim- 
plicity calls  it  art.  That  it  is  not  art, 
that  it  is  not  even  an  amenity,  should  not 
blind  us  to  the  fact  that  it  is  an  honest 
article.  I admit  that  the  man  who  pro- 
duces it  satisfies  a vulgar  and  unprofitable 
taste ; so  does  the  very  upright  trades- 
man who  forces  insipid  asparagus  for  the 
Christmas  market.  Sir  Georgius  Midas  will 
never  care  for  art,  but  he  will  always  want 
a background  ; and,  unless  things  are  going 
to  change  with  surprising  suddenness,  it 
will  be  some  time  before  he  is  unable  to 
get  what  he  wants,  at  a price.  However 
splendid  and  vital  the  new  movement  may 
be,  it  will  not,  I fancy,  unaided,  kill  the 
business  of  picture-making.  The  trade  will 
dwindle ; but  I suspect  it  will  survive 
until  there  is  no  one  who  can  afford  osten- 
tatious upholstery,  until  the  only  purchasers 
are  those  who  willingly  make  sacrifices  for 
the  joy  of  possessing  a work  of  art. 

180 


IV 


ALID  EX  ALIO 

In  the  nineteenth  century  the  spirit  seems 
to  enter  one  of  those  prodigious  periods  of 
incubation  for  a type  of  which  we  turn 
automatically  to  the  age  that  saw  the  last 
infirmity  of  Roman  imperialism  and  of 
Hellenistic  culture.  About  Victorian  men 
and  movements  there  is  something  uneasy. 
It  is  as  though,  having  seen  a shilling  come 
down  “ tails,”  one  were  suddenly  to  sur- 
prise the  ghost  of  a head — you  could  have 
sworn  that  “ heads  ” it  was.  It  doesn’t 
matter,  but  it’s  disquieting.  And  after  all, 
perhaps  it  does  matter.  Seen  from  odd 
angles,  Victorian  judges  and  ministers  take 
on  the  airs  of  conspirators : there  is  some- 
thing prophetic  about  Mr.  Gladstone — about 
the  Newcastle  programme  something  pathe- 
tic. Respectable  hypotheses  are  caught 
implying  the  most  disreputable  conclusions. 
And  yet  the  respectable  classes  speculate 
1 8 1 


ART 


while  anarchists  and  supermen  are  merely 
horrified  by  the  card-playing  and  cham- 
pagne-drinking of  people  richer  than  them- 
selves. Agnostics  see  the  finger  of  God  in 
the  fall  of  godless  Paris.  Individualists 
clamour  for  a large  and  vigilant  police 
force. 

That  is  how  the  nineteenth  century  looks 
to  us.  Most  of  the  mountains  are  in 
labour  with  ridiculous  mice,  but  the  spheres 
are  shaken  by  storms  in  intellectual  tea- 
cups. The  Pre-Raffaelites  call  in  question 
the  whole  tradition  of  the  Classical  Renais- 
sance, and  add  a few  more  names  to  the 
heavy  roll  of  notoriously  bad  painters. 
The  French  Impressionists  profess  to  do 
no  more  than  push  the  accepted  theory  of 
representation  to  its  logical  conclusion,  and 
by  their  practice,  not  only  paint  some 
glorious  pictures,  but  shake  the  fatal  tradi- 
tion and  remind  the  more  intelligent  part 
of  the  world  that  visual  art  has  nothing 
to  do  with  literature.  Whistler  draws,  not 
the  whole,  but  a part  of  the  true  moral. 
What  a pity  he  was  not  a greater  artist ! 
Still,  he  was  an  artist ; and  about  the  year 
1880  the  race  was  almost  extinct  in  this 
country.1 

1 As  Mr.  Walter  Sickert  reminds  me,  there  was  Sickert. 

182 


ALID  EX  ALIO 


Through  the  fog  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, which  began  in  1830,  loom  gigantic 
warnings.  All  the  great  figures  are  ominous. 
If  they  do  not  belong  to  the  new  order, 
they  make  impossible  the  old.  Carlyle 
and  Dickens  and  Victor  Hugo,  the  pro- 
ducts and  lovers  of  the  age,  scold  it. 
Flaubert  points  a contemptuous  finger. 
Ibsen,  a primitive  of  the  new  world,  indi- 
cates the  cracks  in  the  walls  of  the  old. 
Tolstoi  is  content  to  be  nothing  but  a 
primitive  until  he  becomes  little  better  than 
a bore.  By  minding  his  own  business, 
Darwin  called  in  question  the  business  of 
everyone  else.  By  hammering  new  sparks 
out  of  an  old  instrument,  Wagner  revealed 
the  limitations  of  literary  music.  As  the 
twentieth  century  dawns,  a question,  which 
up  to  the  time  of  the  French  Revolution 
had  been  judiciously  kept  academic,  shoulders 
its  way  into  politics  : “ Why  is  this  good  ? ” 
About  the  same  time,  thanks  chiefly  to  the 
Aesthetes  and  the  French  Impressionists,  an 
aesthetic  conscience,  dormant  since  before 
the  days  of  the  Renaissance,  wakes  and 
begins  to  cry,  “ Is  this  art  ? ” 

It  is  amusing  to  remember  that  the  first 
concerted  clamour  against  the  Renaissance 
and  its  florid  sequelae  arose  in  England ; 

183 


ART 

for  the  Romantic  movement,  which  was  as 
much  French  and  German  as  English,  was 
merely  a reaction  from  the  classicism  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  hardly  attacked, 
much  less  threw  off,  the  dominant  tyranny. 
We  have  a right  to  rejoice  in  the  Pre- 
Raffaelite  movement  as  an  instance  of 
England’s  unquestioned  supremacy  in  inde- 
pendence and  unconventionality  of  thought. 
Depression  begins  when  we  have  to  admit 
that  the  revolt  led  to  nothing  but  a great 
many  bad  pictures  and  a little  thin  sentiment. 
The  Pre-Raffaelites  were  men  of  taste  who 
felt  the  commonness  of  the  High  Renaissance 
and  the  distinction  of  what  they  called  Primi- 
tive Art,  by  which  they  meant  the  art  of  the 
fifteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries.  They  saw 
that,  since  the  Renaissance,  painters  had  been 
trying  to  do  something  different  from  what 
the  primitives  had  done ; but  for  the  life  of 
them  they  could  not  see  what  it  was  that  the 
primitives  did.  They  had  the  taste  to  prefer 
Giotto  to  Raffael,  but  the  only  genuine 
reason  they  could  give  for  their  preference 
was  that  they  felt  Raffael  to  be  vulgar. 
The  reason  was  good,  but  not  fundamental ; 
so  they  set  about  inventing  others.  They 
discovered  in  the  primitives  scrupulous  fidelity 
to  nature,  superior  piety,  chaste  lives.  How 
184 


ALID  EX  ALIO 

far  they  were  from  guessing  the  secret  of 
primitive  art  appeared  when  they  began  to 
paint  pictures  themselves.  The  secret  of 
primitive  art  is  the  secret  of  all  art,  at  all 
times,  in  all  places — sensibility  to  the  pro- 
found significance  of  form  and  the  power  of 
creation.  The  band  of  happy  brothers  lacked 
both ; so  perhaps  it  is  not  surprising  that 
they  should  have  found  in  acts  of  piety, 
in  legends  and  symbols,  the  material,  and  in 
sound  churchmanship  the  very  essence,  of 
mediaeval  art.  For  their  own  inspiration 
they  looked  to  the  past  instead  of  looking 
about  them.  Instead  of  diving  for  truth 
they  sought  it  on  the  surface.  The  fact  is,  the 
Pre-Raffaelites  were  not  artists,  but  archaeo- 
logists who  tried  to  make  intelligent  curiosity 
do  the  work  of  impassioned  contemplation. 
As  artists  they  do  not  differ  essentially 
from  the  ruck  of  Victorian  painters.  They 
will  reproduce  the  florid  ornament  of  late 
Gothic  as  slavishly  as  the  steady  Academi- 
cian reproduces  the  pimples  on  an  orange  ; 
and  if  they  do  attempt  to  simplify — some 
of  them  have  noticed  the  simplification  of 
the  primitives — they  do  so  in  the  spirit, 
not  of  an  artist,  but  of  the  “ sedulous  ape.” 
Simplification  is  the  conversion  of  irrele- 
vant detail  into  significant  form.  A very 
185 


ART 


bold  Pre-Raffaelite  was  capable  of  repre- 
senting a meadow  by  two  minutely  accurate 
blades  of  grass.  But  two  minutely  accurate 
blades  of  grass  are  just  as  irrelevant  as  two 
million ; it  is  the  formal  significance  of  a 
blade  of  grass  or  of  a meadow  with  which 
the  artist  is  concerned.  The  Pre-Raffaelite 
method  is  at  best  symbolism,  at  worst  pure 
silliness.  Had  the  Pre  - Raffaelites  been 
blessed  with  profoundly  imaginative  minds 
they  might  have  recaptured  the  spirit  of  the 
Middle  Ages  instead  of  imitating  its  least 
significant  manifestations.  But  had  they  been 
great  artists  they  would  not  have  wished  to 
recapture  anything.  They  would  have  in- 
vented forms  for  themselves  or  derived  them 
from  their  surroundings,  just  as  the  mediaeval 
artists  did.  Great  artists  never  look  back. 

When  art  is  as  nearly  dead  as  it  was  in 
the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century,  scien- 
tific accuracy  is  judged  the  proper  end  of 
painting.  Very  well,  said  the  French  Im- 
pressionists, be  accurate,  be  scientific.  At 
best  the  Academic  painter  sets  down  his 
concepts  ; but  the  concept  is  not  a scientific 
reality  , the  men  of  science  tell  us  that  the 
visible  reality  of  the  Universe  is  vibrations 
of  light.  Let  us  represent  things  as  they 
are — scientifically.  Let  us  represent  light. 

1 8 6 


ALID  EX  ALIO 

Let  us  paint  what  we  see,  not  the  intel- 
lectual superstructure  that  we  build  over 
our  sensations.  That  was  the  theory  : and 
if  the  end  of  art  were  representation  it 
would  be  sound  enough.  But  the  end  of 
art  is  not  representation,  as  the  great  Im- 
pressionists, Renoir,  Degas,  Manet,  knew 
(two  of  them  happily  know  it  still)  the 
moment  they  left  off  arguing  and  bolted 
the  studio  door  on  that  brilliant  theorist, 
Claude  Monet.  Some  of  them,  to  be  sure, 
turned  out  polychromatic  charts  of  deso- 
lating dullness — Monet  towards  the  end,  for 
instance.  The  Neo-Impressionists — Seurat, 
Signac,  and  Cross — have  produced  little  else. 
And  any  Impressionist,  under  the  influence 
of  Monet  and  Watteau,  was  capable  of 
making  a poor,  soft,  formless  thing.  But 
more  often  the  Impressionist  masters,  in 
their  fantastic  and  quite  unsuccessful  pur- 
suit of  scientific  truth,  created  works  of  art 
tolerable  in  design  and  glorious  in  colour. 
Of  course  this  oasis  in  the  mid-century 
desert  delighted  the  odd  people  who  cared 
about  art ; they  pretended  at  first  to  be 
absorbed  in  the  scientific  accuracy  of  the 
thing,  but  before  long  they  realised  that 
they  were  deceiving  themselves,  and  gave 
up  the  pretence.  For  they  saw  very  clearly 
187 


ART 


that  these  pictures  differed  most  profoundly 
from  the  anecdotic  triumphs  of  Victorian 
workshops,  not  in  their  respectful  attention 
to  scientific  theory,  but  in  the  fact  that, 
though  they  made  little  or  no  appeal  to 
the  interests  of  ordinary  life,  they  provoked 
a far  more  potent  and  profound  emotion. 
Scientific  theories  notwithstanding,  the  Im- 
pressionists provoked  that  emotion  which 
all  great  art  provokes — an  emotion  in  the 
existence  of  which  the  bulk  of  Victorian 
artists  and  critics  were,  for  obvious  reasons, 
unable  to  believe.  The  virtue  of  these 
Impressionist  pictures,  whatever  it  might 
be,  depended  on  no  reference  to  the  outside 
world.  What  could  it  be  ? “ Sheer  beauty,” 
said  the  enchanted  spectators.  They  were 
not  far  wrong. 

That  beauty  is  the  one  essential  quality 
in  a work  of  art  is  a doctrine  that  has 
been  too  insistently  associated  with  the  name 
of  Whistler,  who  is  neither  its  first  nor 
its  last,  nor  its  most  capable,  exponent — 
but  only  of  his  age  the  most  conspicuous. 
To  read  Whistler’s  Ten  o Clock  will  do  no 
one  any  harm,  or  much  good.  It  is  neither 
very  brilliant  nor  at  all  profound,  but  it  is 
in  the  right  direction.  Whistler  is  not  to 
be  compared  with  the  great  controversialists 
1 88 


ALID  EX  ALIO 

any  more  than  he  is  to  be  compared 
with  the  great  artists.  To  set  The  Gentle 
Art  beside  The  Dissertation  on  the  Letters 
of  Phalaris , Gibbon's  Vindication,  or  the 
polemics  of  Voltaire,  would  be  as  unjust 
as  to  hang  “ Cremorne  Gardens  ” in  the 
Arena  Chapel.  Whistler  was  not  even  cock 
of  the  Late  Victorian  walk ; both  Oscar 
Wilde  and  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  were  his 
masters  in  the  art  of  controversy.  But 
amongst  Londoners  of  the  “ eighties  ” he 
is  a bright  figure,  as  much  alone  almost  in 
his  knowledge  of  what  art  is,  as  in  his 
power  of  creating  it : and  it  is  this  that 
gives  a peculiar  point  and  poignance  to  all 
hi:  quips  and  quarrels.  There  is  dignity 
in  his  impudence.  He  is  using  his  rather 
obvious  cleverness  to  fight  for  something 
dearer  than  vanity.  He  is  a lonely  artist, 
standing  up  and  hitting  below  the  belt  for 
art.  To  the  critics,  painters,  and  substantial 
men  of  his  age  he  was  hateful  because  he 
was  an  artist ; and  because  he  knew  that 
their  idols  were  humbugs  he  was  disquieting. 
Not  only  did  he  have  to  suffer  the  gross- 
ness and  malice  of  the  most  insensitive  pack 
of  butchers  that  ever  scrambled  into  the 
seat  of  authority ; he  had  also  to  know 
that  not  one  of  them  could  by  any  means 
189 


ART 


be  made  to  understand  one  word  that  he 
spoke  in  seriousness.  Overhaul  the  English 
art  criticism  of  that  time,  from  the  cloudy 
rhetoric  of  Ruskin  to  the  journalese  of 
“ ’Arry,”  and  you  will  hardly  find  a sentence 
that  gives  ground  for  supposing  that  the 
writer  has  so  much  as  guessed  what  art  is. 
“As  we  have  hinted,  the  series  does  not 
represent  any  Venice  that  we  much  care  to 
remember ; for  who  wants  to  remember  the 
degradation  of  what  has  been  noble,  the 
foulness  of  what  has  been  fair  ? ” — “ ’Arry  ” 
in  the  Times.  No  doubt  it  is  becoming  in 
an  artist  to  leave  all  criticism  unanswered  ; 
it  would  be  foolishness  in  a schoolboy  to 
resent  stuff  of  this  sort.  Whistler  replied  ; 
and  in  his  replies  to  ignorance  and  insen- 
sibility, seasoned  with  malice,  he  is  said  to 
have  been  ill-mannered  and  caddish.  He 
was ; but  in  these  respects  he  was  by  no 
means  a match  for  his  most  reputable 
enemies.  And  ill-mannered,  ill-tempered, 
and  almost  alone,  he  was  defending  art, 
while  they  were  flattering  all  that  was  vilest 
in  Victorianism. 

As  I have  tried  to  show  in  another  place, 
it  is  not  very  difficult  to  find  a flaw  in 
the  theory  that  beauty  is  the  essential  quality 
in  a work  of  art — that  is,  if  the  word 
190 


ALID  EX  ALIO 


“ beauty 99  be  used,  as  Whistler  and  his 
followers  seem  to  have  used  it,  to  mean 
insignificant  beauty.  It  seems  that  the 
beauty  about  which  they  were  talking  was 
the  beauty  of  a flower  or  a butterfly ; now  I 
have  very  rarely  met  a person  delicately  sen- 
sitive to  art  who  did  not  agree,  in  the  end, 
that  a work  of  art  moved  him  in  a manner 
altogether  different  from,  and  far  more  pro- 
found than,  that  in  which  a flower  or  a 
butterfly  moved  him.  Therefore,  if  you 
wish  to  call  the  essential  quality  in  a work 
of  art  “ beauty  ” you  must  be  careful  to 
distinguish  between  the  beauty  of  a work 
of  art  and  the  beauty  of  a flower,  or,  at 
any  rate,  between  the  beauty  that  those  of 
us  who  are  not  great  artists  perceive  in  a 
work  of  art  and  that  which  the  same  people 
perceive  in  a flower.  Is  it  not  simpler  to 
use  different  words  ? In  any  case,  the  dis- 
tinction is  a real  one  : compare  your  delight 
in  a flower  or  a gem  with  what  you  feel 
before  a great  work  of  art,  and  you  will 
find  no  difficulty,  I think,  in  differing  from 
Whistler. 

Anyone  who  cares  more  for  a theory  than 
for  the  truth  is  at  liberty  to  say  that  the  art 
of  the  Impressionists,  with  their  absurd 
notions  about  scientific  representation,  is  a 
191 


ART 


lovely  fungus  growing  very  naturally  on  the 
ruins  of  the  Christian  slope.  The  same  can 
hardly  be  said  about  Whistler,  who  was  de- 
finitely in  revolt  against  the  theory  of  his 
age.  For  we  must  never  forget  that  accurate 
representation  of  what  the  grocer  thinks  he 
sees  was  the  central  dogma  of  Victorian  art. 
It  is  the  general  acceptance  of  this  view — 
that  the  accurate  imitation  of  objects  is  an 
essential  quality  in  a work  of  art — and  the 
general  inability  to  create,  or  even  to  recog- 
nise, aesthetic  qualities,  that  mark  the  nine- 
teenth century  as  the  end  of  a slope.  Except 
stray  artists  and  odd  amateurs,  and  you  may 
say  that  in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth 
century  art  had  ceased  to  exist.  That  is 
the  importance  of  the  official  and  academic 
art  of  that  age : it  shows  us  that  we  have 
touched  bottom.  It  has  the  importance  of 
an  historical  document.  In  the  eighteenth 
century  there  was  still  a tradition  of  art. 
Every  official  and  academic  painter,  even  at 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  whose 
name  was  known  to  the  cultivated  public, 
whose  works  were  patronised  by  collectors, 
knew  perfectly  well  that  the  end  of  art  was 
not  imitation,  that  forms  must  have  some 
aesthetic  significance.  Their  successors  in 
the  nineteenth  century  did  not.  Even  the 
192 


ALID  EX  ALIO 


tradition  was  dead.  That  means  that  gene- 
rally and  officially  art  was  dead.  We  have 
seen  it  die.  The  Royal  Academy  and  the 
Salon  have  been  made  to  serve  their  useful, 
historical  purpose.  We  need  say  no  more 
about  them.  Whether  those  definitely 
artistic  cliques  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the 
men  who  made  form  a means  to  aesthetic 
emotion  and  not  a means  of  stating  facts 
and  conveying  ideas,  the  Impressionists  and 
the  Aesthetes,  Manet  and  Renoir,  Whistler 
and  Conder,  &c.  &c.,  are  to  be  regarded  as 
accidental  flowers  blossoming  on  a grave  or 
as  portents  of  a new  age,  will  depend  upon 
the  temperament  of  him  who  regards  them. 

But  a sketch  of  the  Christian  slope  may 
well  end  with  the  Impressionists,  for  Im- 
pressionist theory  is  a blind  alley.  Its  only 
logical  development  would  be  an  art- 
machine — a machine  for  establishing  values 
correctly,  and  determining  what  the  eye  sees 
scientifically,  thereby  making  the  production 
of  art  a mechanical  certainty.  Such  a 
machine,  I am  told,  was  invented  by  an 
Englishman.  Now  if  the  praying-machine 
be  admittedly  the  last  shift  of  senile  religion, 
the  value-finding  machine  may  fairly  be  taken 
for  the  psychopomp  of  art.  Art  has  passed 
from  the  primitive  creation  of  significant 

*93  N 


ART 


form  to  the  highly  civilised  statement  of 
scientific  fact.  I think  the  machine,  which 
is  the  intelligent  and  respectable  end,  should 
be  preserved,  if  still  it  exists,  at  South  Ken- 
sington or  in  the  Louvre,  along  with  the 
earlier  monuments  of  the  Christian  slope. 
As  for  that  uninteresting  and  disreputable 
end,  official  nineteenth-century  art,  it  can  be 
studied  in  a hundred  public  galleries  and  in 
annual  exhibitions  all  over  the  world.  It  is 
the  mouldy  and  therefore  the  obvious  end. 
The  spirit  that  came  to  birth  with  the 
triumph  of  art  over  Graeco-Roman  realism 
dies  with  the  ousting  of  art  by  the  picture 
of  commerce. 

But  if  the  Impressionists,  with  their  scien- 
tific equipment,  their  astonishing  technique, 
and  their  intellectualism,  mark  the  end  of 
one  era,  do  they  not  rumour  the  coming  of 
another  ? Certainly  to-day  there  is  stress  in 
the  cryptic  laboratory  of  Time.  A great 
thing  is  dead  ; but,  as  that  sagacious  Roman 
noted : 


“ haud  igitur  penitus  pereunt  quaecumque  videntur, 
quando  alid  ex  alio  reficit  natura  nec  ullam 
rem  gigni  patitur  nisi  morte  adiuta  aliena.” 

And  do  not  the  Impressionists,  with  their 
power  of  creating  works  of  art  that  stand 
194 


ALID  EX  ALIO 


on  their  own  feet,  bear  in  their  arms  a 
new  age  ? For  if  the  venial  sin  of  Impres- 
sionism is  a grotesque  theory  and  its  justi- 
fication a glorious  practice,  its  historical 
importance  consists  in  its  having  taught 
people  to  seek  the  significance  of  art  in  the 
work  itself,  instead  of  hunting  for  it  in  the 
emotions  and  interests  of  the  outer  world. 


*95 


IV 

THE  MOVEMENT 

I.  The  Debt  to  Cezanne 

II.  Simplification  and  Design 

III.  The  Pathetic  Fallacy 


I' Ih  till,  Ihllr-t 


I 

THE  DEBT  TO  CfiZANNE 

That  with  the  maturity  of  Cezanne  a new 
movement  came  to  birth  will  hardly  be 
disputed  by  anyone  who  has  managed  to 
survive  the  “ nineties  ” ; that  this  movement 
is  the  beginning  of  a new  slope  is  a possi- 
bility worth  discussing,  but  about  which  no 
decided  opinion  can  yet  be  held.  In  so  far 
as  one  man  can  be  said  to  inspire  a whole 
age,  Cezanne  inspires  the  contemporary 
movement : he  stands  a little  apart,  however, 
because  he  is  too  big  to  take  a place  in  any 
scheme  of  historical  development ; he  is  one 
of  those  figures  that  dominate  an  age  and 
are  not  to  be  fitted  into  any  of  the  neat  little 
pigeon-holes  so  thoughtfully  prepared  for 
us  by  evolutionists.  He  passed  through  the 
greater  part  of  life  unnoticed,  and  came  near 
creeping  out  of  it  undiscovered.  No  one 
seems  to  have  guessed  at  what  was  happening. 
It  is  easy  now  to  see  how  much  we  owe  to 
199 


ART 


him,  and  how  little  he  owed  to  anyone ; for 
us  it  is  easy  to  see  what  Gaugin  and  Van 
Gogh  borrowed — in  1890,  the  year  in  which 
the  latter  died,  it  was  not  so.  They  were 
sharp  eyes,  indeed,  that  discerned  before  the 
dawn  of  the  new  century  that  Cezanne  had 
founded  a movement. 

That  movement  is  still  young.  But  I 
think  it  would  be  safe  to  say  that  already 
it  has  produced  as  much  good  art  as  its 
predecessor.  Cezanne,  of  course,  created 
far  greater  things  than  any  Impressionist 
painter ; and  Gaugin,  Van  Gogh,  Matisse, 
Rousseau,  Picasso,  de  Vlaminck,  Derain, 
Herbin,  Marchand,  Marquet,  Bonnard, 
Duncan  Grant,  Maillol,  Lewis,  Kandinsky, 
Brancuzi,  von  Anrep,  Roger  Fry,  Friesz, 
Goncharova,  L’Hote,  are  Rolands  for  the 
Olivers  of  any  other  artistic  period.1  They 
are  not  all  great  artists,  but  they  all 
are  artists.  If  the  Impressionists  raised  the 
proportion  of  works  of  art  in  the  general 
pictorial  output  from  about  one  in  five 
hundred  thousand  to  one  in  a hundred  thou- 
sand, the  Post-Impressionists  (for  after  all  it  is 
sensible  to  call  the  group  of  vital  artists  who 
immediately  follow  the  Impressionists  by  that 

1 Need  I say  that  this  list  is  not  intended  to  be  ex- 
haustive? It  is  merely  representative. 

200 


THE  DEBT  TO  CEZANNE 

name)  have  raised  the  average  again.  To- 
day, I daresay,  it  stands  as  high  as  one  in 
ten  thousand.  Indeed,  it  is  this  that  has  led 
some  people  to  see  in  the  new  movement  the 
dawn  of  a new  age ; for  nothing  is  more 
characteristic  of  a “ primitive  ” movement 
than  the  frequent  and  widespread  production 
of  genuine  art.  Another  hopeful  straw  at 
which  the  sanguine  catch  is  the  admirable 
power  of  development  possessed  by  the  new 
inspiration.  As  a rule,  the  recognition  of  a 
movement  as  a movement  is  its  death.  As 
soon  as  the  pontiffs  discovered  Impressionism, 
some  twenty  years  after  its  patent  manifesta- 
tion, they  academized  it.  They  set  their 
faces  against  any  sort  of  development  and 
drove  into  revolt  or  artistic  suicide  every 
student  with  an  ounce  of  vitality  in  him. 
Before  the  inspiration  of  Cezanne  had  time 
to  grow  stale,  it  was  caught  up  by  such  men 
as  Matisse  and  Picasso ; by  them  it  was 
moulded  into  forms  that  suited  their  dif- 
ferent temperaments,  and  already  it  shows 
signs  of  taking  fresh  shape  to  express  the 
sensibility  of  a younger  generation.1 

1 Let  us  hope  that  it  will.  There  certainly  are  ominous 
signs  of  academization  amongst  the  minor  men  of  the 
movement.  There  is  the  beginning  of  a tendency  to 
regard  certain  simplifications  and  distortions  as  ends  in 
201 


ART 


This  is  very  satisfactory  but  it  does  not 
suffice  to  prove  that  the  new  movement  is 
the  beginning  of  a new  slope  ; it  does  not 
prove  that  we  stand  now  where  the  early 
Byzantines  stood,  with  the  ruins  of  a civilisa- 
tion clattering  about  our  ears  and  our  eyes 
set  on  a new  horizon.  In  favour  of  that 
view  there  are  no  solid  arguments ; yet  are 
there  general  considerations,  worth  stating 
and  pondering,  though  not  to  be  pushed  too 
violently.  He  who  would  cast  the  horoscope 
of  humanity,  or  of  any  human  activity,  must 
neither  neglect  history  nor  trust  her  over- 
much. Certainly  the  neglect  of  history  is 
the  last  mistake  into  which  a modern  specu- 
lator is  likely  to  fall.  To  compare  Victorian 
England  with  Imperial  Rome  has  been  the 
pastime  of  the  half-educated  these  fifty  years. 
“ Tu  regere  imperio  populos , Romane , memento ,” 
is  about  as  much  Latin  as  it  is  becoming  in  a 
public  schoolman  to  remember.  The  histori- 
cally minded  should  travel  a little  further 
with  their  comparison  (to  be  sure,  some 
have  done  so  in  search  of  arguments  against 
Socialism),  on  their  way,  they  will  not  have 

themselves  and  party  badges.  There  is  some  danger  of 
an  attempt  to  impose  a formula  on  the  artist’s  individu- 
ality. At  present  the  infection  has  not  spread  far,  and  the 
disease  has  taken  a mild  form. 

202 


THE  DEBT  TO  CEZANNE 

failed  to  remark  the  materialism,  the 
mechanical  cunning,  the  high  standard  of 
comfort,  the  low  standard  of  honesty,  the 
spiritual  indigence,  the  unholy  alliance  of 
cynicism  with  sentimentality,  the  degradation 
of  art  and  religion  to  menial  and  mountebank 
offices,  common  in  both,  and  in  both  signify- 
ing the  mouldy  end  of  what  was  once  a vital 
agitation.  To  similise  the  state  superstitions 
and  observances  of  Rome  with  our  official 
devotions  and  ministration,  the  precise  busts 
in  the  British  Museum  with  the  “ speaking 
likenesses  ” in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery, 
the  academic  republicanism  of  the  cultivated 
patricians  with  English  Liberalism,  and  the 
thrills  of  the  arena  with  those  of  the  playing- 
field,  would  be  pretty  sport  for  any  little 
German  boy.  I shall  not  encourage  the  brat 
to  lay  an  historical  finger  on  callousness, 
bravado,  trembling  militarism,  superficial 
culture,  mean  political  passion,  megalomania, 
and  a taste  for  being  in  the  majority  as 
attributes  common  to  Imperial  Rome  and 
Imperial  England.  Rather  I will  inquire 
whether  the  rest  of  Europe  does  not  labour 
under  the  proverbial  disability  of  those  who 
live  in  glass-houses.  It  is  not  so  much 
English  politics  as  Western  civilisation  that 
reminds  me  of  the  last  days  of  the  Empire. 
203 


ART 


The  facility  of  the  comparison  disfavours 
the  raking  up  of  similarities;  I need  not 
compare  Mr.  Shaw  with  Lucian  or  the 
persecution  of  Christians  with  the  savage  out- 
bursts of  our  shopkeepers  against  anarchists. 
One  may  note,  though,  that  it  is  as  impos- 
sible to  determine  exactly  when  and  whence 
came  the  religious  spirit  that  was  to  make 
an  end  of  Graeco-Roman  materialism  as  to 
assign  a birth-place  to  the  spiritual  ferment 
that  pervades  modern  Europe.  For  though 
we  may  find  a date  for  the  maturity  of 
Cezanne,  and  though  I agree  that  the  art 
of  one  genius  may  produce  a movement,  even 
Cezanne  will  hardly  suffice  to  account  for 
what  looks  like  the  beginning  of  an  artistic 
slope  and  a renaissance  of  the  human  spirit. 
One  would  hesitate  to  explain  the  dark  and 
middle  ages  by  the  mosaics  at  Ravenna. 
The  spirit  that  was  to  revive  the  moribund 
Roman  world  came  from  the  East ; that  we 
know.  It  was  at  work  long  before  the 
world  grew  conscious  of  its  existence.  Its 
remotest  origins  are  probably  undiscover- 
able.  To-day  we  can  name  pioneers,  beside 
Cezanne,  in  the  new  world  of  emotion ; 
there  was  Tolstoi,  and  there  was  Ibsen  ; 
but  who  can  say  that  these  did  not  set  out 
in  search  of  Eldorados  of  which  already 
204 


THE  DEBT  TO  CfiZANNE 

they  had  heard  travellers’  tales.  Ruskin 
shook  his  fist  at  the  old  order  to  some 
purpose ; and,  if  he  could  not  see  clearly 
what  things  counted,  succeeded  at  least  in 
making  contemptible  some  that  did  not. 
Nietzsche’s  preposterous  nonsense  knocked 
the  bottom  out  of  nonsense  more  prepos- 
terous and  far  more  vile.  But  to  grub  for 
origins  is  none  of  mv  business ; when  the 
Church  shall  be  established  be  sure  that 
industrious  hagiographers  will  do  justice  to 
its  martyrs  and  missionaries. 

Consider,  too,  that  a great  emotional 
renaissance  must  be  preceded  by  an  intel- 
lectual, destructive  movement.  To  that  how 
shall  we  assign  a starting-point  ? It  could 
be  argued,  I suppose,  that  it  began  with 
Voltaire  and  the  Encyclopaedists.  Having 
gone  so  far  back,  the  historian  would  find 
cause  for  going  further  still.  How  could  he 
justify  any  frontier  ? Every  living  organism 
is  said  to  carry  in  itself  the  germ  of  its 
own  decay,  and  perhaps  a civilisation  is  no 
sooner  alive  than  it  begins  to  contrive  its 
end.  Gradually  the  symptoms  of  disease 
become  apparent  to  acute  physicians  who 
state  the  effect  without  perceiving  the  cause. 
Be  it  so ; circular  fatalism  is  as  cheerful 
as  it  is  sad.  If  ill  must  follow  good,  good 
205 


ART 


must  follow  ill.  In  any  case,  I have  said 
enough  to  show  that  if  Europe  be  again 
at  the  head  of  a pass,  if  we  are  about  to 
take  the  first  step  along  a new  slope,  the 
historians  of  the  new  age  will  have  plenty 
to  quarrel  about. 

It  may  be  because  the  nineteenth  century 
was  preparing  Europe  for  a new  epoch,  that 
it  understood  better  its  destructive  critics 
than  its  constructive  artists.  At  any  rate 
before  that  century  ended  it  had  produced 
one  of  the  great  constructive  artists  of  the 
world,  and  overlooked  him.  Whether  or 
no  he  marks  the  beginning  of  a slope, 
Cezanne  certainly  marks  the  beginning  of 
a movement  the  main  characteristics  of 
which  it  will  be  my  business  to  describe. 
For,  though  there  is  some  absurdity  in  dis- 
tinguishing one  artistic  movement  from  an- 
other, since  all  works  of  art,  to  whatever 
age  they  belong,  are  essentially  the  same ; 
yet  these  superficial  differences  which  are 
the  characteristics  of  a movement  have  an 
importance  beyond  that  dubious  one  of 
assisting  historians.  The  particular  methods 
of  creating  form,  and  the  particular  kinds 
of  form  affected  by  the  artists  of  one  genera- 
tion, have  an  important  bearing  on  the  art 
of  the  next.  For  whereas  the  methods  and 
206 


THE  DEBT  TO  CEZANNE 

forms  of  one  may  admit  of  almost  infinite  de- 
velopment, the  methods  and  forms  of  another 
may  admit  of  nothing  but  imitation.  For 
instance,  the  fifteenth  century  movement  that 
began  with  Masaccio,  Uccello,  and  Castagno 
opened  up  a rich  vein  of  rather  inferior  ore  ; 
whereas  the  school  of  Raffael  was  a blind 
alley.  Cezanne  discovered  methods  and 
forms  which  have  revealed  a vista  of  possi- 
bilities to  the  end  of  which  no  man  can 
see ; on  the  instrument  that  he  invented 
thousands  of  artists  yet  unborn  may  play 
their  own  tunes. 

What  the  future  will  owe  to  Cezanne 
we  cannot  guess : what  contemporary  art 
owes  to  him  it  would  be  hard  to  compute. 
Without  him  the  artists  of  genius  and  talent 
who  to-day  delight  us  with  the  significance 
and  originality  of  their  work  might  have 
remained  port-bound  for  ever,  ill-discerning 
their  objective,  wanting  chart,  rudder,  and 
compass.  Cezanne  is  the  Christopher  Colum- 
bus of  a new  continent  of  form.  In  1839 
he  was  born  at  Aix-en-Provence,  and  for 
forty  years  he  painted  patiently  in  the 
manner  of  his  master  Pissarro.  To  the  eyes 
of  the  world  he  appeared,  so  far  as  he  ap- 
peared at  all,  a respectable,  minor  Impres- 
sionist, an  admirer  of  Manet,  a friend,  if 
207 


ART 


not  a prot6g6,  of  Zola,  a loyal,  negligible 
disciple.  He  was  on  the  right  side,  of 
course — the  Impressionist  side,  the  side  of 
the  honest,  disinterested  artists,  against  the 
academic,  literary  pests.  He  believed  in 
painting.  He  believed  that  it  could  be 
something  better  than  an  expensive  substitute 
for  photography  or  an  accompaniment  to 
poor  poetry.  So  in  1870  he  was  for  science 
against  sentimentality. 

But  science  will  neither  make  nor  satisfy 
an  artist : and  perhaps  Cezanne  saw  what 
the  great  Impressionists  could  not  see,  that 
though  they  were  still  painting  exquisite 
pictures  their  theories  had  led  art  into  a cul 
de  sac . So  while  he  was  working  away  in 
his  corner  of  Provence,  shut  off  completely 
from  the  aestheticism  of  Paris,  from  Baude- 
lairism  and  Whistlerism,  Cezanne  was  always 
looking  for  something  to  replace  the  bad 
science  of  Claude  Monet.  And  somewhere 
about  1880  he  found  it.  At  Aix-en-Provence 
came  to  him  a revelation  that  has  set  a 
gulf  between  the  nineteenth  century  and  the 
twentieth : for,  gazing  at  the  familiar  land- 
scape, Cezanne  came  to  understand  it,  not  as 
a mode  of  light,  nor  yet  as  a player  in  the 
game  of  human  life,  but  as  an  end  in  itself 
and  an  object  of  intense  emotion.  Every 
208 


THE  DEBT  TO  CfiZANNE 

great  artist  has  seen  landscape  as  an  end  in 
itself — as  pure  form,  that  is  to  say  ; Cezanne 
has  made  a generation  of  artists  feel  that 
compared  with  its  significance  as  an  end  in 
itself  all  else  about  a landscape  is  negligible. 
From  that  time  forward  Cezanne  set  him- 
self to  create  forms  that  would  express  the 
emotion  that  he  felt  for  what  he  had  learnt 
to  see.  Science  became  as  irrelevant  as 
subject.  Everything  can  be  seen  as  pure 
form,  and  behind  pure  form  lurks  the 
mysterious  significance  that  thrills  to  ecstasy. 
The  rest  of  Cezanne’s  life  is  a continuous 
effort  to  capture  and  express  the  significance 
of  form. 

I have  tried  to  say  in  another  place  that 
there  are  more  roads  than  one  by  which  a 
man  may  come  at  reality.  Some  artists 
seem  to  have  come  at  it  by  sheer  force  of 
imagination,  unaided  by  anything  without 
them ; they  have  needed  no  material  ladder 
to  help  them  out  of  matter.  They  have 
spoken  with  reality  as  mind  to  mind,  and 
have  passed  on  the  message  in  forms  which 
owe  nothing  but  bare  existence  to  the  physi- 
cal universe.  Of  this  race  are  the  best 
musicians  and  architects  ; of  this  race  is  not 
Cezanne.  He  travelled  towards  reality  along 
the  traditional  road  of  European  painting. 

209  o 


ART 


It  was  in  what  he  saw  that  he  discovered  a 
sublime  architecture  haunted  by  that  Uni- 
versal which  informs  every  Particular.  He 
pushed  further  and  further  towards  a com- 
plete revelation  of  the  significance  of  form, 
but  he  needed  something  concrete  as  a point 
of  departure.  It  was  because  Cezanne  could 
come  at  reality  only  through  what  he  saw 
that  he  never  invented  purely  abstract  forms. 
Few  great  artists  have  depended  more  on  the 
model.  Every  picture  carried  him  a little 
further  towards  his  goal  — complete  ex- 
pression ; and  because  it  was  not  the  making 
of  pictures  but  the  expression  of  his  sense  of 
the  significance  of  form  that  he  cared  about, 
he  lost  interest  in  his  work  so  soon  as  he  had 
made  it  express  as  much  as  he  had  grasped. 
His  own  pictures  were  for  Cezanne  nothing 
but  rungs  in  a ladder  at  the  top  of  which 
would  be  complete  expression.  The  whole 
of  his  later  life  was  a climbing  towards  an 
ideal.  For  him  every  picture  was  a means, 
a step,  a stick,  a hold,  a stepping-stone — 
something  he  was  ready  to  discard  as  soon  as 
it  had  served  his  purpose.  He  had  no  use 
for  his  own  pictures.  To  him  they  were  ex- 
periments. He  tossed  them  into  bushes,  or 
left  them  in  the  open  fields  to  be  stumbling- 
blocks  for  a future  race  of  luckless  critics. 

210 


THE  DEBT  TO  CfiZANNE 

Cezanne  is  a type  of  the  perfect  artist ; he 
is  the  perfect  antithesis  of  the  professional 
picture-maker,  or  poem-maker,  or  music- 
maker.  He  created  forms  because  only  by 
so  doing  could  he  accomplish  the  end  of  his 
existence — the  expression  of  his  sense  of  the 
significance  of  form.  When  we  are  talking 
about  aesthetics,  very  properly  we  brush  all 
this  aside,  and  consider  only  the  object  and 
its  emotional  effect  on  us  ; but  when  we  are 
trying  to  explain  the  emotional  effectiveness 
of  pictures  we  turn  naturally  to  the  minds  of 
the  men  who  made  them,  and  find  in  the 
story  of  Cezanne  an  inexhaustible  spring  of 
suggestion.  His  life  was  a constant  effort  to 
create  forms  that  would  express  what  he  felt 
in  the  moment  of  inspiration.  The  notion 
of  uninspired  art,  of  a formula  for  making 
pictures,  would  have  appeared  to  him  pre- 
posterous. The  real  business  of  his  life  was 
not  to  make  pictures,  but  to  work  out  his 
own  salvation.  Fortunately  for  us  he  could 
only  do  this  by  painting.  Any  two  pictures 
by  Cezanne  are  bound  to  differ  profoundly. 
He  never  dreamed  of  repeating  himself.  He 
could  not  stand  still.  That  is  why  a whole 
generation  of  otherwise  dissimilar  artists  have 
drawn  inspiration  from  his  work.  That  is 
why  it  implies  no  disparagement  of  any 

21  i 


ART 


living  artist  when  I say  that  the  prime  char- 
acteristic of  the  new  movement  is  its  deriva- 
tion from  Cezanne. 

The  world  into  which  Cezanne  tumbled 
was  a world  still  agitated  by  the  quarrels 
of  Romantics  and  Realists.  The  quarrel 
between  Romance  and  Realism  is  the  quarrel 
of  people  who  cannot  agree  as  to  whether 
the  history  of  Spain  or  the  number  of  pips 
is  the  more  important  thing  about  an  orange. 
The  Romantics  and  Realists  were  deaf  men 
coming  to  blows  about  the  squeak  of  a 
bat.  The  instinct  of  a Romantic  invited 
to  say  what  he  felt  about  anything  was 
to  recall  its  associations.  A rose,  for 

instance,  made  him  think  of  old  gardens 
and  young  ladies  and  Edmund  Waller  and 
sundials,  and  a thousand  quaint  and  gracious 
things  that,  at  one  time  or  another,  had 
befallen  him  or  someone  else.  A rose 
touched  life  at  a hundred  pretty  points.  A 
rose  was  interesting  because  it  had  a past. 
“ Bosh,”  said  the  Realist,  “ I will  tell  you 
what  a rose  is ; that  is  to  say,  I will  give 
you  a detailed  account  of  the  properties 
of  Rosa  setigera , not  forgetting  to  mention 
the  urn-shaped  calyx-tube,  the  five  imbri- 
cated lobes,  or  the  open  corolla  of  five 
obovate  petals. ” To  a Cezanne  one  account 
212 


THE  DEBT  TO  CEZANNE 

would  appear  as  irrelevant  as  the  other, 
since  both  omit  ihe  thing  that  matters — what 
philosophers  used  to  call  “ the  thing  in 
itself,”  what  now,  I imagine,  they  call  “ the 
essential  reality.”  For,  after  all,  what  is 
a rose  ? What  is  a tree,  a dog,  a wall,  a 
boat  ? What  is  the  particular  significance 
of  anything  ? Certainly  the  essence  of  a 
boat  is  not  that  it  conjures  up  visions  of 
argosies  with  purple  sails,  nor  yet  that 
it  carries  coals  to  Newcastle.  Imagine  a 
boat  in  complete  isolation,  detach  it  from 
man  and  his  urgent  activities  and  fabulous 
history,  what  is  it  that  remains,  what  is 
that  to  which  we  still  react  emotionally? 
What  but  pure  form,  and  that  which,  lying 
behind  pure  form,  gives  it  its  significance. 
It  was  for  this  Cezanne  felt  the  emotion  he 
spent  his  life  in  expressing.  And  the 
second  characteristic  of  the  new  movement 
is  a passionate  interest,  inherited  from 
Cezanne,  in  things  regarded  as  ends  in 
themselves.  In  saying  this  I am  say- 
ing no  more  than  that  the  painters  of 
the  movement  are  consciously  determined 
to  be  artists.  Peculiarity  lies  in  the  con- 
sciousness— the  consciousness  with  which 
they  set  themselves  to  eliminate  all  that 
lies  between  themselves  and  the  pure  forms 
213 


ART 


of  things.  To  be  an  artist,  they  think, 
suffices.  How  many  men  of  talent,  and 
even  of  genius,  have  missed  being  effective 
artists  because  they  tried  to  be  something 
else  ? 


214 


II 


SIMPLIFICATION  AND  DESIGN 

At  the  risk  of  becoming  a bore  I repeat  that 
there  is  something  ludicrous  about  hunting 
for  characteristics  in  the  art  of  to-day  or  of 
yesterday,  or  of  any  particular  period.  In 
art  the  only  important  distinction  is  the 
distinction  between  good  art  and  bad.  That 
this  pot  was  made  in  Mesopotamia  about 
4000  b.c.,  and  that  picture  in  Paris  about 
1913  a.d.,  is  of  very  little  consequence. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  possible,  though  not  very 
profitable,  to  distinguish  between  equally 
good  works  made  at  different  times  in 
different  places ; and  although  the  practice 
of  associating  art  with  the  age  in  which 
it  was  produced  can  be  of  no  service  to 
art  or  artists,  I am  not  sure  that  it  can  be  of 
no  service  whatever.  For  if  it  be  true  that 
art  is  an  index  to  the  spiritual  condition  of 
an  age,  the  historical  consideration  of  art 
cannot  fail  to  throw  some  light  on  the 
215 


ART 


history  of  civilisation.  It  is  conceivable 
therefore  that  a comparative  study  of  artistic 
periods  might  lead  us  to  modify  our  con- 
ception of  human  development,  and  to  revise 
a few  of  our  social  and  political  theories. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  this  much  is  sure : should 
anyone  wish  to  infer  from  the  art  it  pro- 
duced the  civility  of  an  age,  he  must  be 
capable  of  distinguishing  the  work  of  that 
age  from  the  work  of  all  other  ages.  He 
must  be  familiar  with  the  characteristics  of 
the  movement.  It  is  my  intention  to  indi- 
cate a few  of  the  more  obvious  charac- 
teristics of  the  contemporary  movement. 

But  how  comes  it  that  the  art  of  one 
age  differs  from  that  of  another  ? At  first 
sight  it  seems  odd  that  art,  which  is  the 
expression  of  man’s  sense  of  the  significance 
of  form,  should  vary  even  superficially 
from  age  to  age.  Yet,  deeply  considered, 
it  is  as  certain  that  superficially  art  will 
always  be  changing  as  that  essentially  it 
cannot  change.  It  seems  that  the  ape- 
instinct  in  man  is  so  strong  that  unless  he 
were  continually  changing  he  would  cease 
to  create  and  merely  imitate.  It  is  the 
old  question  of  the  artistic  problem.  Only 
by  setting  himself  new  problems  can  the 
artist  raise  his  powers  to  the  white  heat 
216 


SIMPLIFICATION  AND  DESIGN 

of  creation.  The  forms  in  which  artists 
can  express  themselves  are  infinite,  and 
their  desire  to  express  themselves  keeps  up 
a constant  change  and  reaction  in  artistic 
form.  Not  only  is  there  something  of  the 
ancestral  ape  in  man,  there  is  something 
of  the  ancestral  sheep ; there  are  fashions 
in  forms  and  colours  and  the  relations  of 
forms  and  colours ; or,  to  put  the  matter 
more  pleasantly,  and  more  justly,  there  is 
sufficient  accord  in  the  sensibilities  of  an 
age  to  induce  a certain  similarity  of  forms. 
It  seems  as  though  there  were  strange 
powers  in  the  air  from  which  no  man  can 
altogether  escape  ; we  call  them  by  pet 
names — “Movements,”  “Forces,”  “Ten- 
dencies,” “ Influences,”  “ The  Spirit  of  the 
Age  ” — but  we  never  understand  them. 
They  are  neither  to  be  frightened  nor 
cajoled  by  our  airs  of  familiarity,  which 
impress  the  public  only.  They  exist,  how- 
ever, and  if  they  did  not  we  should  have 
to  invent  them ; for  how  else  are  we  to 
explain  the  fact  that  not  only  do  the 
artists  of  a particular  period  affect  parti- 
cular kinds  of  form,  but  that  even  the  spec- 
tators of  each  new  generation  seem  to  be 
born  with  sensibilities  specially  apt  to  be 
flattered  by  them.  In  this  age  it  is  pos- 
217 


ART 


siblc  to  take  refuge  under  the  magic  word 
“ Cezanne  ” ; we  can  say  that  Cezanne  has 
imposed  his  forms  on  Georgian  painters 
and  public,  just  as  Wagner  imposed  his 
on  Edwardian  musicians  and  concert-goers. 
This  explanation  seems  to  me  inadequate ; 
and  in  any  case  it  will  not  account  for 
the  predominance  of  formal  fashions  in 
ages  undominated  by  any  masterful  genius. 
The  spirit  of  an  artistic  age  is,  I suspect, 
a composition  that  defies  complete  analysis ; 
the  work  of  one  great  mind  is  generally 
one  part  of  it,  the  monuments  of  some 
particular  past  age  are  often  another. 
Technical  discoveries  have  sometimes  led 
to  artistic  changes.  For  instance,  to  men 
who  have  been  in  the  habit  of  painting  on 
wood,  the  invention  of  canvas  would  sug- 
gest all  sorts  of  fascinating  novelties. 
Lastly,  there  is  a continual  change  in  the 
appearance  of  those  familiar  objects  which 
are  the  raw  material  of  most  visual  artists. 
So,  though  the  essential  quality — signifi- 
cance— is  constant,  in  the  choice  of  forms 
there  is  perpetual  change ; and  these  changes 
seem  to  move  in  long  flights  or  shorter 
jumps,  so  that  we  are  able,  with  some  pre- 
cision, to  lay  our  fingers  on  two  points 
between  which  there  is  a certain  amount 
218 


SIMPLIFICATION  AND  DESIGN 


of  art  possessing  certain  common  charac- 
teristics. That  which  lies  between  two 
such  points  historians  call  a period  or 
movement. 

The  period  in  which  we  find  ourselves 
in  the  year  1913  begins  with  the  maturity 
of  Cezanne  (about  1885).  It  therefore 
overlaps  the  Impressionist  movement,  which 
certainly  had  life  in  it  till  the  end  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  Whether  Post-Impres- 
sionism will  peter  out  as  Impressionism  has 
done,  or  whether  it  is  the  first  flowering 
of  a new  artistic  vitality  with  centuries  of 
development  before  it,  is,  I have  admitted, 
a matter  of  conjecture.  What  seems  to 
me  certain  is  that  those  who  shall  be  able 
to  contemplate  our  age  as  something  com- 
plete, as  a period  in  the  history  of  art, 
will  not  so  much  as  know  of  the  existence 
of  the  artisans  still  amongst  us  who  create 
illusions  and  chaffer  and  quarrel  in  the 
tradition  of  the  Victorians.  When  they 
think  of  the  early  twentieth-century  painters 
they  will  think  only  of  the  artists  who 
tried  to  create  form — the  artisans  who  tried 
to  create  illusions  will  be  forgotten.  They 
will  think  of  the  men  who  looked  to  the 
present,  not  of  those  who  looked  to  the 
past ; and,  therefore,  it  is  of  them  alone 
219 


ART 


that  I shall  think  when  I attempt  to  de- 
scribe the  contemporary  movement.1 

Already  I have  suggested  two  character- 
istics of  the  movement ; I have  said  that  in 
their  choice  of  forms  and  colours  most  vital 
contemporary  artists  are,  more  or  less,  in- 
fluenced by  Cezanne,  and  that  Cezanne  has 
inspired  them  with  the  resolution  to  free 
their  art  from  literary  and  scientific  irre- 
levancies.  Most  people,  asked  to  mention  a 
third,  would  promptly  answer,  I suspect — 
Simplification.  To  instance  simplification  as 
a peculiarity  of  the  art  of  any  particular  age 
seems  queer,  since  simplification  is  essential 
to  all  art.  Without  it  art  cannot  exist ; for 
art  is  the  creation  of  significant  form,  and 
simplification  is  the  liberating  of  what  is  signi- 
ficant from  what  is  not.  Yet  to  such  depths 
had  art  sunk  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
that  in  the  eyes  of  the  rabble  the  greatest 
crime  of  Whistler  and  the  Impressionists  was 
their  by  no  means  drastic  simplification. 

1 Of  course  there  are  some  good  artists  alive  who  owe 
nothing  to  C6zanne.  Fortunately  two  of  Cezanne’s  con- 
temporaries, Degas  and  Renoir,  are  still  at  work.  Also 
there  are  a few  who  belong  to  the  older  movement,  e.g. 
Mr.  Walter  Sickert,  M.  Simon  Bussy,  M.  Vuillard,  Mr. 
J.  W.  Morrice.  I should  be  as  unwilling  to  omit  these 
names  from  a history  of  twentieth  century  art  as  to  in- 
clude them  in  a chapter  devoted  to  the  contemporary 
movement. 


220 


SIMPLIFICATION  AND  DESIGN 

And  we  are  not  yet  clear  of  the  Victorian 
slough.  The  spent  dip  stinks  on  into  the 
dawn.  You  have  only  to  look  at  almost 
any  modern  building  to  see  masses  of  elabo- 
ration and  detail  that  form  no  part  of  any 
real  design  and  serve  no  useful  purpose. 
Nothing  stands  in  greater  need  of  simplifica- 
tion than  architecture,  and  nowhere  is  sim- 
plification more  dreaded  and  detested  than 
amongst  architects.  Walk  the  streets  of 
London ; everywhere  you  will  see  huge 
blocks  of  ready-made  decoration,  pilasters 
and  porticoes,  friezes  and  facades,  hoisted  on 
cranes  to  hang  from  ferro-con Crete  walls. 
Public  buildings  have  become  public  laughing- 
stocks.  They  are  as  senseless  as  slag-heaps, 
and  far  less  beautiful.  Only  where  economy 
has  banished  the  architect  do  we  see  masonry 
of  any  merit.  The  engineers,  who  have  at 
least  a scientific  problem  to  solve,  create,  in 
factories  and  railway-bridges,  our  most  credit- 
able monuments.  They  at  least  are  not 
ashamed  of  their  construction,  or,  at  any 
rate,  they  are  not  allowed  to  smother  it  in 
beauty  at  thirty  shillings  a foot.  We  shall 
have  no  more  architecture  in  Europe  till 
architects  understand  that  all  these  tawdry 
excrescences  have  got  to  be  simplified  away, 
till  they  make  up  their  minds  to  express 
221 


ART 


themselves  in  the  materials  of  the  age — steel 
concrete,  and  glass — and  to  create  in  these 
admirable  media  vast,  simple,  and  significant 
forms. 

The  contemporary  movement  has  pushed 
simplification  a great  deal  further  than 
Manet  and  his  friends  pushed  it,  thereby 
distinguishing  itself  from  anything  we  have 
seen  since  the  twelfth  century.  Since  the 
twelfth  century,  in  sculpture  and  glass,  the 
thirteenth,  in  painting  and  drawing,  the  drift 
has  been  towards  realism  and  away  from  art. 
Now  the  essence  of  realism  is  detail.  Since 
Zola,  every  novelist  has  known  that  nothing 
gives  so  imposing  an  air  of  reality  as  a mass 
of  irrelevant  facts,  and  very  few  have  cared 
to  give  much  else.  Detail  is  the  heart  of 
realism,  and  the  fatty  degeneration  of  art. 
The  tendency  of  the  movement  is  to  simplify 
away  all  this  mess  of  detail  which  painters 
have  introduced  into  pictures  in  order  to 
state  facts.  But  more  than  this  was  needed. 
There  were  irrelevancies  introduced  into  pic- 
tures for  other  purposes  than  that  of  state- 
ment. There  were  the  irrelevancies  of 
technical  swagger.  Since  the  twelfth  century 
there  has  been  a steady  elaboration  of  techni- 
cal complexities.  Writers  with  nothing  to 
say  soon  come  to  regard  the  manipulation 
222 


SIMPLIFICATION  AND  DESIGN 


of  words  as  in  end  in  itself.  So  ctoks  with- 
out  eggs  might  come  to  regard  the  ritual 
of  omelette-making,  the  mixing  of  condi- 
ments, the  chopping  of  herbs,  the  stoking  of 
ires,  and  the  shaping  of  white  caps,  as  i £ne 
an.  As  for  the  eggs, — why  that’s  God 
business : and  who  wants  omelettes  when  he 
can  have  cooking  ? The  movement 
simp  lined  the  bstxru  d*  cubin'.  Net him* 
is  to  be  left  in  a work  of  art  which  merely 
shows  that  the  craftsman  knows  how  to  ret 
it  there. 

Alas ! It  generally  turns  out  that  Life 
and  Art  are  rather  more  complicated  than 
we  could  wish ; to  understand  exactly  what 
is  meant  by  simplification  we  must  go  deeper 
into  the  mysteries.  It  is  easy  to  say  elimi- 
nate irrelevant  detais.  Wha:  details  are  not 
irrelevant  ? In  a work  of  art  nothing  is 
relevant  but  what  contributes  to  formal  sig- 
nificance. Therefore  all  inform  a :ory  matter 
is  irrelevant  and  should  be  eliminated.  Bat 
what  most  painters  have  to  express  can  only 
be  expressed  in  designs  so  complex  and 
subtle  that  without  some  clue  they  would 
be  almost  unintelligible.  For  instance,  there 
are  many  designs  that  can  only  be  grxsred 
by  a spectator  who  looks  at  them  frem  a 
particular  point  of  view.  Net  every  picture 
223 


ART 


is  as  good  seen  upside  down  as  upside  up. 
To  be  sure,  very  sensitive  people  can  always 
discover  from  the  design  itself  how  it  should 
be  viewed,  and,  without  much  difficulty,  will 
place  correctly  a piece  of  lace  or  embroidery 
in  which  there  is  no  informatory  clue  to 
guide  them.  Nevertheless,  when  an  artist 
makes  an  intricate  design  it  is  tempting  and, 
indeed,  reasonable,  for  him  to  wish  to  pro- 
vide a clue  ; and  to  do  so  he  has  only  to 
work  into  his  design  some  familiar  object,  a 
tree  or  a figure,  and  the  business  is  done. 
Having  established  a number  of  extremely 
subtle  relations  between  highly  complex 
forms,  he  may  ask  himself  whether  anyone 
else  will  be  able  to  appreciate  them.  Shall 
he  not  give  a hint  as  to  the  nature  of  his 
organisation,  and  ease  the  way  for  our 
aesthetic  emotions  ? If  he  give  to  his  forms 
so  much  of  the  appearance  of  the  forms  of 
ordinary  life  that  we  shall  at  once  refer  them 
back  to  something  we  have  already  seen, 
shall  we  not  grasp  more  easily  their  aesthetic 
relations  in  his  design  ? Enter  by  the  back- 
door representation  in  the  quality  of  a clue 
to  the  nature  of  design.  I have  no  objec- 
tion to  its  presence.  Only,  if  the  represen- 
tative element  is  not  to  ruin  the  picture 
as  a work  of  art,  it  must  be  fused  into 
224 


SIMPLIFICATION  AND  DESIGN 


the  design.  It  must  do  double  duty  ; as 
well  as  giving  information,  it  must  create 
aesthetic  emotion.  It  must  be  simplified 
into  significant  form. 

Let  us  make  no  mistake  about  this.  To 
help  the  spectator  to  appreciate  our  design 
we  have  introduced  into  our  picture  a 
representative  or  cognitive  element.  This 
element  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
art.  The  recognition  of  a correspondence 
between  the  forms  of  a work  of  art  and  the 
familiar  forms  of  life  cannot  possibly  pro- 
voke aesthetic  emotion.  Only  significant 
form  can  do  that.  Of  course  realistic  forms 
may  be  aesthetically  significant,  and  out  of 
them  an  artist  may  create  a superb  work  of 
art,  but  it  is  with  their  aesthetic  and  not 
with  their  cognitive  value  that  we  shall  then 
be  concerned.  We  shall  treat  them  as 
though  they  were  not  representative  of 
anything.  The  cognitive  or  representative 
element  in  a work  of  art  can  be  useful  as  a 
means  to  the  perception  of  formal  relations 
and  in  no  other  way.  It  is  valuable  to  the 
spectator,  but  it  is  of  no  value  to  the  work 
of  art ; or  rather  it  is  valuable  to  the  work 
of  art  as  an  ear-trumpet  is  valuable  to  one 
who  would  converse  with  the  deaf : the 

speaker  could  do  as  well  without  it,  the 
225  p 


ART 


listener  could  not.  The  representative 
element  may  help  the  spectator ; it  can 
do  the  picture  no  good  and  it  may  do 
harm.  It  may  ruin  the  design ; that  is 
to  say,  it  may  deprive  the  picture  of  its 
value  as  a whole ; and  it  is  as  a whole, 
as  an  organisation  of  forms,  that  a work 
of  art  provokes  the  most  tremendous 
emotions. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  the  spectator 
the  Post-Impressionists  have  been  particu- 
larly happy  in  their  simplification.  As  we 
know,  a design  can  be  composed  just  as 
well  of  realistic  forms  as  of  invented  ; but  a 
fine  design  composed  of  realistic  forms  runs 
a great  risk  of  being  aesthetically  underrated. 
We  are  so  immediately  struck  by  the  re- 
presentative element  that  the  formal  signi- 
ficance passes  us  by.  It  is  very  hard  at 
first  sight  to  appreciate  the  design  of  a 
picture  by  a highly  realistic  artist — Ingres, 
for  instance ; our  aesthetic  emotions  are 
overlaid  by  our  human  curiosity.  We  do 
not  see  the  figures  as  forms,  because  we 
immediately  think  of  them  as  people.  On 
the  other  hand,  a design  composed  of 
purely  imaginary  forms,  without  any  cogni- 
tive clue  (say  a Persian  carpet),  if  it  be  at 
all  elaborate  and  intricate,  is  apt  to  non- 
226 


SIMPLIFICATION  AND  DESIGN 


plus  the  less  sensitive  spectators.  Post-Im- 
pressionists, by  employing  forms  sufficiently 
distorted  to  disconcert  and  baffle  human 
interest  and  curiosity  yet  sufficiently  repre- 
sentative to  call  immediate  attention  to  the 
nature  of  the  design,  have  found  a short 
way  to  our  aesthetic  emotions.  This  does 
not  make  Post-Impressionist  pictures  better 
or  worse  than  others ; it  makes  them  more 
easily  appreciable  as  works  of  art.  Prob- 
ably it  will  always  be  difficult  for  the  mass 
of  men  to  consider  pictures  as  works  of  art, 
but  it  will  be  less  difficult  for  them  so 
to  consider  Post  Impressionist  than  realistic 
pictures ; while,  if  they  ceased  to  consider 
objects  unprovided  with  representative  clues 
( e.g . some  oriental  textiles)  as  historical 
monuments,  they  would  find  it  very  difficult 
to  consider  them  at  all. 

To  assure  his  design,  the  artist  makes  it 
his  first  care  to  simplify.  But  mere  simpli- 
fication, the  elimination  of  detail,  is  not 
enough.  The  informatory  forms  that  re- 
main have  got  to  be  made  significant.  The 
representative  element,  if  it  is  not  to  injure 
the  design,  must  become  a part  of  it ; 
besides  giving  information  it  has  got  to 
provoke  aesthetic  emotion.  That  is  where 
symbolism  fails.  The  symbolist  eliminates, 
227 


ART 


but  does  not  assimilate.  His  symbols,  as  a 
rule,  are  not  significant  forms,  but  formal 
intelligencers.  They  are  not  integral  parts 
of  a plastic  conception,  but  intellectual 
abbreviations.  They  are  not  informed  by 
the  artist’s  emotion,  they  are  invented  by  his 
intellect.  They  are  dead  matter  in  a living 
organism.  They  are  rigid  and  tight  be- 
cause they  are  not  traversed  by  the  rhythm 
of  the  design.  The  explanatory  legends 
that  illustrators  used  to  produce  from  the 
mouths  of  their  characters  are  not  more 
foreign  to  visual  art  than  the  symbolic 
forms  with  which  many  able  draughts- 
men have  ruined  their  designs.  In  the 
famous  “ Melancholia,”  and,  to  some 
extent,  in  a few  other  engravings — “St. 
Eustace,”  for  instance,  and  “The  Virgin 
and  Child  ” (B.  34.  British  Museum), — 
Diirer  has  managed  to  convert  a mass  of 
detail  into  tolerably  significant  form ; but 
in  the  greater  part  of  his  work  (e.g.  “The 
Knight,”  “St.  Jerome”)  fine  conception  is 
hopelessly  ruined  by  a mass  of  undigested 
symbolism. 

Every  form  in  a work  of  art  has,  then, 
to  be  made  aesthetically  significant;  also 
every  form  has  to  be  made  a part  of  a 
significant  whole.  For,  as  generally  happens, 
228 


SIMPLIFICATION  AND  DESIGN 


the  value  of  the  parts  combined  into  a 
whole  is  far  greater  than  the  value  of  the 
sum  of  the  parts.  This  organisation  of  forms 
into  a significant  whole  is  called  Design ; 
and  an  insistence — an  exaggerated  insistence 
some  will  say — on  design  is  the  fourth  char- 
acteristic of  the  Contemporary  Movement. 
This  insistence,  this  conviction  that  a work 
should  not  be  good  on  the  whole,  but  as  a 
whole,  is,  no  doubt,  in  part  a reaction  from 
the  rather  too  easy  virtue  of  some  of  the 
Impressionists,  who  were  content  to  cover 
their  canvases  with  charming  forms  and 
colours,  not  caring  overmuch  whether  or 
how  they  were  co-ordinated.  Certainly  this 
was  a weakness  in  Impressionism — though 
by  no  means  in  all  the  Impressionist  masters 
— for  it  is  certain  that  the  profoundest 
emotions  are  provoked  by  significant  com- 
binations of  significant  forms.  Also,  it 
seems  certain  that  only  in  these  organised 
combinations  can  the  artist  express  himself 
completely. 

It  seems  that  an  artist  creates  a good 
design  when,  having  been  possessed  by  a real 
emotional  conception,  he  is  able  to  hold 
and  translate  it.  We  all  agree,  I think, 
that  till  the  artist  has  had  his  moment  of 
emotional  vision  there  can  be  no  very  con- 
229 


ART 


siderablc  work  of  art ; but,  the  vision  seen 
and  felt,  it  still  remains  uncertain  whether 
he  has  the  force  to  hold  and  the  skill  to 
translate  it.  Of  course  the  vast  majority 
of  pictures  fail  in  design  because  they 
correspond  to  no  emotional  vision  ; but  the 
interesting  failures  are  those  in  which  the 
vision  came  but  was  incompletely  grasped. 
The  painters  who  have  failed  for  want  of 
technical  skill  to  set  down  what  they  have 
felt  and  mastered  could  be  counted  on  the 
fingers  of  one  hand  — if,  indeed,  there  are 
any  to  be  counted.  But  cn  all  sides  we 
see  interesting  pictures  in  which  the  holes 
in  the  artist’s  conception  are  obvious.  The 
vision  was  once  perfect,  but  it  cannot  be 
recaptured.  The  rapture  will  not  return. 
The  supreme  creative  power  is  wanting. 
There  are  holes,  and  they  have  to  be  filled 
with  putty.  Putty  we  all  know  when  we 
see  it — when  we  feel  it.  It  is  dead  matter 
— literal  transcriptions  from  nature,  intel- 
lectual machinery,  forms  that  correspond 
with  nothing  that  was  apprehended  emotion- 
ally, forms  unfired  with  the  rhythm  that 
thrilled  through  the  first  vision  of  a signi- 
ficant whole. 

There  is  an  absolute  necessity  about  a 
good  design  arising,  I imagine,  from  the 
230 


SIMPLIFICATION  AND  DESIGN 

fact  that  the  nature  of  each  form  and  its 
relation  to  all  the  other  forms  is  deter- 
mined by  the  artist’s  need  of  expressing 
exactly  what  he  felt.  Of  course,  a perfect 
correspondence  between  expression  and  con- 
ception may  not  be  established  at  the  first 
or  the  second  attempt.  But  if  the  work 
is  to  be  a success  there  will  come  a moment 
in  which  the  artist  will  be  able  to  hold 
and  express  completely  his  hour  or  minute 
of  inspiration.  If  that  moment  does  not 
come  the  design  will  lack  necessity.  For 
though  an  artist’s  aesthetic  sense  enables 
him,  as  we  shall  see,  to  say  whether  a 
design  is  right  or  wrong,  only  this  masterful 
power  of  seizing  and  holding  his  vision 
enables  him  to  make  it  right.  A bad 
design  lacks  cohesion  ; a good  design  pos- 
sesses it  ; if  I conjecture  that  the  secret 
of  cohesion  is  the  complete  realisation  of 
that  thrill  which  comes  to  an  artist  when 
he  conceives  his  work  as  a whole,  I shall 
not  forget  that  it  is  a conjecture.  But  it 
is  not  conjecture  to  say  that  when  we  call 
a design  good  we  mean  that,  as  a whole, 
it  provokes  aesthetic  emotion,  and  that  a 
bad  design  is  a congeries  of  lines  and 
colours,  individually  satisfactory  perhaps, 
but  as  a whole  unmoving. 

231 


ART 


For,  ultimately,  the  spectator  can  deter- 
mine whether  a design  is  good  or  bad  only 
by  discovering  whether  or  no  it  moves  him. 
Having  made  that  discovery  he  can  go  on 
to  criticise  in  detail ; but  the  beginning  of 
all  aesthetic  judgment  and  all  criticism  is 
emotion.  It  is  after  I have  been  left  cold 
that  I begin  to  notice  that  defective  organisa- 
tion of  forms  which  I call  bad  design.  And 
here,  in  my  judgments  about  particular 
designs,  I am  still  on  pretty  sure  ground  : 
it  is  only  when  I attempt  to  account  for 
the  moving  power  of  certain  combina- 
tions that  I get  into  the  world  of  con- 
jecture. Nevertheless,  I believe  that  mine 
are  no  bad  guesses  at  truth,  and  that 
on  the  same  hypothesis  we  can  account 
for  the  difference  between  good  and  bad 
drawing. 

Design  is  the  organisation  of  forms  : draw- 
ing is  the  shaping  of  the  forms  themselves. 
Clearly  there  is  a point  at  which  the  two 
commingle,  but  that  is  a matter  of  no 
present  importance.  When  I say  that 
drawing  is  bad,  I mean  that  I am  not 
moved  by  the  contours  of  the  forms  that 
make  up  the  work  of  art.  The  causes  of 
bad  drawing  and  bad  design  I believe  to 
be  similar.  A form  is  badly  drawn  when 
232 


SIMPLIFICATION  AND  DESIGN 


it  does  not  correspond  with  a part  of  an 
emotional  conception.  The  shape  of  every 
form  in  a work  of  art  should  be  imposed 
on  the  artist  by  his  inspiration.  The  hand 
of  the  artist,  I believe,  must  be  guided  by 
the  necessity  of  expressing  something  he 
has  felt  not  only  intensely  but  definitely. 
The  artist  must  know  what  he  is  about, 
and  what  he  is  about  must  be,  if  I am 
right,  the  translation  into  material  form 
of  something  that  he  felt  in  a spasm  of 
ecstasy.  Therefore,  shapes  that  merely  fill 
gaps  will  be  ili-drawn.  Forms  that  are  not 
dictated  by  any  emotional  necessity,  forms 
that  state  facts,  forms  that  are  the  con- 
sequences of  a theory  of  draughtsmanship, 
imitations  of  natural  objects  or  of  the  forms 
of  other  works  of  art,  forms  that  exist 
merely  to  fill  spaces — padding  in  fact, — all 
these  are  worthless.  Good  drawing  must 
be  inspired,  it  must  be  the  natural  mani- 
festation of  that  thrill  which  accompanies 
the  passionate  apprehension  of  form. 

One  word  more  to  close  this  discussion. 
No  critic  is  so  stupid  as  to  mean  by  “ bad 
drawing,”  drawing  that  does  not  represent  the 
model  correctly.  The  gods  of  the  art  schools, 
Michelangelo,  Mantegna,  RafFael,  &c.  played 
the  oddest  tricks  with  anatomy.  Everyone 
233 


ART 


knows  that  Giotto’s  figures  are  less  accu- 
rately drawn  than  those  of  Sir  Edward 
Poynter ; no  one  supposes  that  they  are  not 
drawn  better.  We  do  possess  a criterion 
by  which  we  can  judge  drawing,  and  that 
criterion  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  truth 
to  nature.  We  judge  drawing  by  con- 
centrating our  aesthetic  sensibility  on  a 
particular  part  of  design.  What  we  mean 
when  we  speak  of  “good  drawing”  and 
“ bad  drawing  ” is  not  doubtful ; we  mean 
“ aesthetically  moving  ” and  “ aesthetically 
insignificant.”  Why  some  drawing  moves 
and  some  does  not  is  a very  different  ques- 
tion. I have  put  forward  an  hypothesis  of 
which  I could  write  a pretty  sharp  criticism  : 
that  task,  however,  I leave  to  more  willing 
hands.  Only  this  I will  say : just  as  a 
competent  musician  knows  with  certainty 
when  an  instrument  is  out  of  tune 
though  the  criterion  resides  nowhere  but 
in  his  own  sensibility ; so  a fine  critic  of 
visual  art  can  detect  lines  and  colours  that 
are  not  alive.  Whether  he  be  looking  at 
an  embroidered  pattern  or  at  a careful  ana- 
tomical study,  the  task  is  always  the  same, 
because  the  criterion  is  always  the  same. 
What  he  has  to  decide  is  whether  the  draw- 
ing is,  or  is  not,  aesthetically  significant. 

234 


SIMPLIFICATION  AND  DESIGN 

Insistence  on  design  is  perhaps  the  most 
obvious  characteristic  of  the  movement.  To 
all  are  familiarthose  circumambient  blacklines 
that  are  intended  to  give  definition  to  forms 
and  to  reveal  the  construction  of  the  picture. 
For  almost  all  the  younger  artists, — Bonnard 
is  an  obvious  exception — affect  that  archi- 
tectural method  of  design  which  indeed  has 
generally  been  preferred  by  European  artists. 
The  difference  between  “ architectural  de- 
sign ” and  what  I call  “ imposed  design  ” will 
be  obvious  to  anyone  who  compares  a picture 
by  Cezanne  with  a picture  by  Whistler. 
Better  still,  compare  any  first-rate  Florentine 
of  the  fourteenth  or  fifteenth  century  with 
any  Sung  picture.  Here  are  two  methods 
of  achieving  the  same  end,  equally  good,  so 
far  as  I can  judge,  and  as  different  as  possible. 
We  feel  towards  a picture  by  Cezanne  or 
Masaccio  or  Giotto  as  we  feel  towards  a 
Romanesque  church ; the  design  seems  to 
spring  upwards,  mass  piles  itself  on  mass, 
forms  balance  each  other  masonrywise  : there 
is  a sense  of  strain,  and  of  strength  to  meet 
it.  Turn  to  a Chinese  picture;  the  forms 
seem  to  be  pinned  to  the  silk  or  to  be  hung 
from  above.  There  is  no  sense  of  thrust  or 
strain  ; rather  there  is  the  feeling  of  some 
creeper,  with  roots  we  know  not  where,  that 

235 


ART 


hangs  itself  in  exquisite  festoons  along  the 
wall.  Though  architectural  design  is  a per- 
manent characteristic  of  Western  art,  of  four 
periods  I think  it  would  be  fairly  accurate  to 
say  that  it  is  a characteristic  so  dominant  as 
to  be  distinctive ; and  they  are  Byzantine 
Vlth  Century,  Byzantine  IX-XIIIth  Cen- 
tury, Florentine  XIVth  and  XVth  Century, 
and  the  Contemporary  Movement. 

To  say  that  the  artists  of  the  movement 
insist  on  design  is  not  to  deny  that  some 
of  them  are  exceptionally  fine  colourists. 
Cezanne  is  one  of  the  greatest  colourists 
that  ever  lived ; Henri-Matisse  is  a great 
colourist.  Yet  all,  or  nearly  all,  use  colour 
as  a mode  of  form.  They  design  in 
colour,  that  is  in  coloured  shapes.  Very 
few  fall  into  the  error  of  regarding  colour 
as  an  end  in  itself,  and  of  trying  to 
think  of  it  as  something  different  from 
form.  Colour  in  itself  has  little  or  no 
significance.  The  mere  juxtaposition  of 
tones  moves  us  hardly  at  all.  As  colourists 
themselves  are  fond  of  saying,  “ It  is  the 
quantities  that  count.”  It  is  not  by  his 
mixing  and  choosing,  but  by  the  shapes  of 
his  colours,  and  the  combinations  of  those 
shapes,  that  we  recognise  the  colourist. 
Colour  becomes  significant  only  when  it 
236 


SIMPLIFICATION  AND  DESIGN 

becomes  form.  It  is  a virtue  in  con- 
temporary artists  that  they  have  set  their 
faces  against  the  practice  of  juxtaposing 
pretty  patches  of  colour  without  much  con- 
sidering their  formal  relations,  and  that 
they  attempt  so  to  organise  tones  as  to 
raise  form  to  its  highest  significance.  But 
it  is  not  surprising  that  a generation  of 
exceptionally  sweet  and  attractive  but  rather 
formless  colourists  should  be  shocked  by 
the  obtrusion  of  those  black  lines  that  seem 
to  do  violence  to  their  darling.  They  are 
irritated  by  pictures  in  which  there  is  to 
be  no  accidental  charm  of  soft  lapses  and 
lucky  chiaroscuro.  They  do  not  admire 
the  austere  determination  of  these  young 
men  to  make  their  work  independent  and 
self-supporting  and  unbeholden  to  adventi- 
tious dainties.  They  cannot  understand 
this  passion  for  works  that  are  admirable 
as  wholes,  this  fierce  insistence  on  design, 
this  willingness  to  leave  bare  the  construc- 
tion if  by  so  doing  the  spectator  may  be 
helped  to  a conception  of  the  plan.  Critics 
of  the  Impressionist  age  are  vexed  by 
the  naked  bones  and  muscles  of  Post- 
Impressionist  pictures.  But,  for  my  own 
part,  even  though  these  young  artists  in- 
sisted on  a bareness  and  baldness  exceeding 
237 


ART 


anything  we  have  yet  seen,  I should  be  far 
from  blaming  a band  of  ascetics  who  in  an 
age  of  unorganised  prettiness  insisted  on 
the  paramount  importance  of  design. 


238 


Ill 


THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY 

Many  of  those  who  are  enthusiastic  about 
the  movement,  were  they  asked  what  they 
considered  its  most  important  characteristic, 
would  reply,  I imagine,  “ The  expression  of 
a new  and  peculiar  point  of  view.”  “ Post- 
Impressionism,”  I have  heard  people  say, 
“ is  an  expression  of  the  ideas  and  feelings 
of  that  spiritual  renaissance  which  is  now 
growing  into  a lusty  revolution.”  With 
this  I cannot,  of  course,  agree.  If  art  ex- 
presses anything,  it  expresses  some  pro- 
found and  general  emotion  common,  or  at 
least  possible,  to  all  ages,  and  peculiar  to 
none.  But  if  these  sympathetic  people 
mean,  as  I believe  they  do,  that  the  art 
of  the  new  movement  is  a manifestation 
of  something  different  from — they  will  say 
larger  than — itself,  of  a spiritual  revolution 
in  fact,  I will  not  oppose  them.  Art  is  as 
good  an  index  to  the  spiritual  state  of  this 
239 


ART 


age  as  of  another ; and  in  the  effort  of 
artists  to  free  painting  from  the  clinging 
conventions  of  the  near  past,  and  to  use 
it  as  a means  only  to  the  most  sublime 
emotions,  we  may  read  signs  of  an  age 
possessed  of  a new  sense  of  values  and 
eager  to  turn  that  possession  to  account. 
It  is  impossible  to  visit  a good  modern 
exhibition  without  feeling  that  we  are  back 
in  a world  not  altogether  unworthy  to  be 
compared  with  that  which  produced  primi- 
tive art.  Here  are  men  who  take  art 
seriously.  Perhaps  they  take  life  seriously 
too,  but  if  so,  that  is  only  because  there 
are  things  in  life  (aesthetic  ecstasy,  for  in- 
stance) worth  taking  seriously.  In  life, 
they  can  distinguish  between  the  wood  and 
the  few  fine  trees.  As  for  art,  they  know 
that  it  is  something  more  important  than 
a criticism  of  life ; they  will  not  pretend 
that  it  is  a traffic  in  amenities ; they  know 
that  it  is  a spiritual  necessity.  They  are 
not  making  handsome  furniture,  nor  pretty 
knick-knacks,  nor  tasteful  souvenirs ; they 
are  creating  forms  that  stir  our  most  won- 
derful emotions. 

It  is  tempting  to  suppose  that  art  such  as 
this  implies  an  attitude  towards  society.  It 
seems  to  imply  a belief  that  the  future  will 
240 


THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY 

not  be  a mere  repetition  of  the  past,  but  that 
by  dint  of  willing  and  acting  men  will  con- 
quer for  themselves  a life  in  which  the 
claims  of  spirit  and  emotion  will  make  some 
headway  against  the  necessities  of  physical 
existence.  It  seems,  I say  : but  it  would  be 
exceedingly  rash  to  assume  anything  of  the 
sort,  and,  for  myself,  I doubt  whether  the 
good  artist  bothers  much  more  about  the 
future  -than  about  the  past.  Why  should 
artists  bother  about  the  fate  of  humanity  ? 
If  art  does  not  justify  itself,  aesthetic  rapture 
does.  Whether  that  rapture  is  to  be  felt  by 
future  generations  of  virtuous  and  contented 
artisans  is  a matter  of  purely  speculative 
interest.  Rapture  suffices.  The  artist  has 
no  more  call  to  look  forward  than  the  lover 
in  the  arms  of  his  mistress.  There  are 
moments  in  life  that  are  ends  to  which  the 
whole  history  of  humanity  would  not  be  an 
extravagant  means  ; of  such  are  the  moments 
of  aesthetic  ecstasy.  It  is  as  vain  to  imagine 
that  the  artist  works  with  one  eye  on  The 
Great  State  of  the  future,  as  to  go  to  his 
art  for  an  expression  of  political  or  social 
opinions.  It  is  not  their  attitude  towards  the 
State  or  towards  life,  but  the  pure  and  serious 
attitude  of  these  artists  towards  their  art,  that 
makes  the  movement  significant  of  the  age. 

241  Q 


ART 


Here  are  men  who  refuse  all  compromise, 
who  will  hire  no  half-way  house  between  what 
they  believe  and  what  the  public  likes ; men 
who  decline  flatly,  and  over-stridently  some- 
times, to  concern  themselves  at  all  with  what 
seems  to  them  unimportant.  To  call  the  art 
of  the  movement  democratic — some  people 
have  done  so — is  silly.  All  artists  are  aristo- 
crats in  a sense,  since  no  artist  believes 
honestly  in  human  equality ; in  any  other 
sense  to  call  an  artist  an  aristocrat  or  a demo- 
crat is  to  call  him  something  irrelevant  or 
insulting.  The  man  who  creates  art  especi- 
ally to  move  the  poor  or  especially  to  please 
the  rich  prostitutes  whatever  of  worth  may 
be  in  him.  A good  many  artists  have 
maimed  or  ruined  themselves  by  pretending 
that,  besides  the  distinction  between  good  art 
and  bad,  there  is  a distinction  between  aristo- 
cratic art  and  plebeian.  In  a sense  all  art 
is  anarchical  ; to  take  art  seriously  is  to  be 
unable  to  take  seriously  the  conventions  and 
principles  by  which  societies  exist.  It  may 
be  said  with  some  justice  that  Post-Impres- 
sionism is  peculiarly  anarchical  because  it 
insists  so  emphatically  on  fundamentals  and 
challenges  so  violently  the  conventional 
tradition  of  art  and,  by  implication,  I 
suppose,  the  conventional  view  of  life.  By 
242 


THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY 


setting  art  so  high,  it  sets  industrial  civilisa- 
tion very  low.  Here,  then,  it  may  shake 
hands  with  the  broader  and  vaguer  spirit  of 
the  age ; the  effort  to  produce  serious  art 
may  bear  witness  to  a stir  in  the  underworld, 
to  a weariness  of  smug  materialism  and  a more 
passionate  and  spiritual  conception  of  life. 
The  art  of  the  movement,  in  so  far  as  it  is 
art,  expresses  nothing  temporal  or  local ; but 
it  may  be  a manifestation  of  something  that 
is  happening  here  and  now,  something  of 
which  the  majority  of  mankind  seems  hardly 
yet  to  be  aware. 

Men  and  women  who  have  been  thrilled 
by  the  pure  aesthetic  significance  of  a work 
of  art  go  away  into  the  outer  world  in  a 
state  of  excitement  and  exaltation  which 
makes  them  more  sensitive  to  all  that  is 
going  forward  about  them.  Thus,  they 
realise  with  a heightened  intensity  the  signi- 
ficance and  possibility  of  life.  It  is  not  sur- 
prising that  they  should  read  this  new  sense 
of  life  into  that  which  gave  it.  Not  in  the 
least ; and  I shall  not  quarrel  with  them  for 
doing  so.  It  is  far  more  important  to  be 
moved  by  art  than  to  know  precisely  what  it 
is  that  moves.  I should  just  like  to  remind 
them,  though,  that  if  art  were  no  more  than 
they  sometimes  fancy  it  to  be,  art  would  not 
243 


ART 


move  them  as  it  does.  If  art  were  a mere 
matter  of  suggesting  the  emotions  of  life  a 
work  of  art  would  give  to  each  no  more  than 
what  each  brought  with  him.  It  is  because 
art  adds  something  new  to  our  emotional 
experience,  something  that  comes  not  from 
human  life  but  from  pure  form,  that  it  stirs 
us  so  deeply  and  so  mysteriously.  But  that, 
for  many,  art  not  only  adds  something 
new,  but  seems  to  transmute  and  enrich  the 
old,  is  certain  and  by  no  means  deplor- 
able. 

The  fact  is,  this  passionate  and  austere  art 
of  the  Contemporary  Movement  is  not  only 
an  index  to  the  general  ferment,  it  is  also 
the  inspiration,  and  even  the  standard,  of  a 
young,  violent,  and  fierce  generation.  It  is 
the  most  visible  and  the  most  successful 
manifestation  of  their  will,  or  they  think  it 
is.  Political  reform,  social  reform,  literature 
even,  move  slowly,  ankle-deep  in  the  mud 
of  materialism  and  deliquescent  tradition. 
Though  not  without  reason  Socialists  claim 
that  Liberals  ride  their  horses,  the  jockeys 
still  wear  blue  and  buff.  Mr.  Lloyd  George 
stands  unsteadily  on  the  shoulders  of  Mr. 
Gladstone  ; the  bulk  of  his  colleagues  cling 
on  behind.  If  literature  is  to  be  made  the 
test,  we  shall  soon  be  wishing  ourselves  back 
244 


THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY 


in  the  nineteenth  century.  Unless  it  be 
Thomas  Hardy,  there  is  no  first-rate  novelist 
in  Europe ; there  is  no  first-rate  poet ; 
without  disrespect  to  D’Annunzio,  Shaw,  or 
Claudel,  it  may  be  said  that  Ibsen  was  their 
better.  Since  Mozart,  music  has  just  kept 
her  nose  above  the  slough  of  realism, 
romance,  and  melodrama.  Music  seems  to 
be  where  painting  was  in  the  time  of  Courbet ; 
she  is  drifting  through  complex  intellectual- 
ism  and  a brilliant,  exasperating  realism,  to 
arrive,  I hope,  at  greater  purity.1  Con- 
temporary painting  is  the  one  manifest 
triumph  of  the  young  age.  Not  even  the 
oldest  and  wisest  dare  try  to  smile  it  away. 
Those  who  cannot  love  Cezanne  and  Matisse 
hate  them  ; and  they  not  only  say  it,  they 
shriek  it.  It  is  not  surprising,  then,  that 
visual  art,  which  seems  to  many  the  mirror 
in  which  they  see  realised  their  own  ideals, 
should  have  become  for  some  a new  religion. 
Not  content  with  its  aesthetic  significance, 
these  seek  in  art  an  inspiration  for  the  whole 
of  life.  For  some  of  us,  to  be  sure,  the 
aesthetic  significance  is  a sufficient  inspira- 

1 June  1913.  Ariadne  in  Naxos.  Is  Strauss,  our 
one  musician  of  genius,  himself  the  pivot  on  which  the 
wheel  is  beginning  to  swing?  Having  drained  the  cup 
of  Wagnerism  and  turned  it  upside  down,  is  he  now  going 
to  school  with  Mozart? 


245 


ART 


tion  ; for  the  others  I have  no  hard  words. 
To  art  they  take  their  most  profound  and 
subtle  emotions,  their  most  magnanimous 
ideas,  their  dearest  hopes ; from  art  they 
bring  away  enriched  and  purified  emotion 
and  exaltation,  and  fresh  sources  of  both.  In 
art  they  imagine  that  they  find  an  expression 
of  their  most  intimate  and  mysterious  feel- 
ings ; and,  though  they  miss,  not  utterly  but 
to  some  extent,  the  best  that  art  has  to  give, 
if  of  art  they  make  a religion  I do  not  blame 
them. 

In  the  days  of  Alexander  Severus  there 
lived  at  Rome  a Greek  freed  man.  As  he 
was  a clever  craftsman  his  lot  was  not  hard. 
His  body  was  secure,  his  belly  full,  his  hands 
and  brain  pleasantly  busy.  He  lived  amongst 
intelligent  people  and  handsome  objects,  per- 
mitting himself  such  reasonable  emotions  as 
were  recommended  by  his  master,  Epicurus. 
He  awoke  each  morning  to  a quiet  day  of 
ordered  satisfaction,  the  prescribed  toll  of 
unexacting  labour,  a little  sensual  pleasure,  a 
little  rational  conversation,  a cool  argument, 
a judicious  appreciation  of  all  that  the  in- 
tellect can  apprehend.  Into  this  existence 
burst  suddenly  a cranky  fanatic,  with  a 
religion.  To  the  Greek  it  seemed  that  the 
breath  of  life  had  blown  through  the  grave, 
246 


THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY 


imperial  streets.  Yet  nothing  in  Rome  was 
changed,  save  one  immortal,  or  mortal,  soul 
The  same  waking  eyes  opened  on  the  same 
objects  ; yet  all  was  changed  ; all  was  charged 
with  meaning.  New  things  existed.  Every- 
thing mattered.  In  the  vast  equality  of 
religious  emotion  the  Greek  forgot  his  status 
and  his  nationality.  His  life  became  a 
miracle  and  an  ecstasy.  As  a lover  awakes, 
he  awoke  to  a day  full  of  consequence  and 
delight.  He  had  learnt  to  feel ; and, 
because  to  feel  a man  must  live,  it  was  good 
to  be  alive.  I know  an  erudite  and  in- 
telligent man,  a man  whose  arid  life  had 
been  little  better  than  one  long  cold  in  the 
head,  for  whom  that  madman,  Van  Gogh,  did 
nothing  less. 


247 


V 

THE  FUTURE 


I.  Society  and  Art 

II.  Art  and  Society 


I 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 

To  bother  much  about  anything  but  the 
present  is,  we  all  agree,  beneath  the  dignity 
of  a healthy  human  animal.  Yet  how  many 
of  us  can  resist  the  malsane  pleasure  of 
puzzling  over  the  past  and  speculating  about 
the  future  ? Once  admit  that  the  Contem- 
porary Movement  is  something  a little  out 
of  the  common,  that  it  has  the  air  of  a 
beginning,  and  you  will  catch  yourself  saying 
“ Beginning  of  what  ? ” instead  of  settling 
down  quietly  to  enjoy  the  rare  spectacle 
of  a renaissance.  Art,  we  hope,  serious, 
alive,  and  independent  is  knocking  at  the 
door,  and  we  are  impelled  to  ask  “What 
will  come  of  it?”  This  is  the  general 
question,  which,  you  will  find,  divides  itself 
into  two  sufficiently  precise  queries — “ What 
will  Society  do  with  Art?”  and  “What 
will  Art  do  with  Society  ? ” 

It  is  a mistake  to  suppose  that  because 
251 


ART 


Society  cannot  affect  Art  directly,  it  cannot 
affect  it  at  all.  Society  can  affect  Art  indi- 
rectly because  it  can  affect  artists  directly. 
Clearly,  if  the  creation  of  works  of  art 
were  made  a capital  offence,  the  quantity, 
if  not  the  quality,  of  artistic  output  would 
be  affected.  Proposals  less  barbarous,  but 
far  more  terrible,  are  from  time  to  time 
put  forward  by  cultivated  state-projectors 
who  would  make  of  artists,  not  criminals, 
but  highly-paid  officials.  Though  states- 
manship can  do  no  positive  good  to  art, 
it  can  avoid  doing  a great  deal  of  harm : 
its  power  for  ill  is  considerable.  The  one 
good  thing  Society  can  do  for  the  artist 
is  to  leave  him  alone.  Give  him  liberty. 
The  more  completely  the  artist  is  freed 
from  the  pressure  of  public  taste  and 
opinion,  from  the  hope  of  rewards  and  the 
menace  of  morals,  from  the  fear  of  absolute 
starvation  or  punishment,  and  from  the  pros- 
pect of  wealth  or  popular  consideration,  the 
better  for  him  and  the  better  for  art,  and 
therefore  the  better  for  everyone.  Liberate 
the  artist : here  is  something  that  those 

powerful  and  important  people  who  are 
always  assuring  us  that  they  would  do  any- 
thing for  art  can  do. 

They  might  begin  the  work  of  encourage- 
25  2 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 

ment  by  disestablishing  and  disendowing 
art  ; by  withdrawing  doles  from  art  schools, 
and  confiscating  the  moneys  misused  by  the 
Royal  Academy.  The  case  of  the  schools 
is  urgent.  Art  schools  do  nothing  but 
harm,  because  they  must  do  something.  Art 
is  not  to  be  learned  ; at  any  rate  it  is  not 
to  be  taught.  All  that  the  drawing-master 
can  teach  is  the  craft  of  imitation.  In 
schools  there  must  be  a criterion  of  excel- 
lence and  that  criterion  cannot  be  an  artistic 
one  ; the  drawing-master  sets  up  the  only 
criterion  he  is  capable  of  using — fidelity  to 
the  model.  No  master  can  make  a student 
into  an  artist ; but  all  can,  and  most  do, 
turn  into  impostors,  maniacs,  criminals,  or 
just  cretins,  the  unfortunate  boys  and  girls 
who  had  been  made  artists  by  nature.  It 
is  not  the  master’s  fault  and  he  ought  not 
to  be  blamed.  He  is  there  to  bring  all  his 
pupils  to  a certain  standard  of  efficiency 
appreciable  by  inspectors  and  by  the  general 
public,  and  the  only  quality  of  which  such 
can  judge  is  verisimilitude.  The  only  re- 
spects in  which  one  work  can  be  seen  to 
differ  from  another  by  an  ordinarily  insen- 
sitive person  ( e.g . a Board  of  Education 
inspector)  are  choice  of  subject  and  fidelity 
to  common  vision.  So,  even  if  a drawing- 

253 


ART 


master  could  recognise  artistic  talent,  he 
would  not  be  permitted  to  encourage  it. 
It  is  not  that  drawing-masters  are  wicked, 
but  that  the  system  is  vicious.  Art  schools 
must  go. 

The  money  that  the  State  at  present 
devotes  to  the  discouragement  of  Art  had 
better,  I dare  say,  be  given  to  the  rich. 
It  would  be  tempting  to  save  it  for  the 
purchase  of  works  of  art,  but  perhaps  that 
can  lead  to  nothing  but  mischief.  It  is 
unthinkable  that  any  Government  should 
ever  buy  what  is  best  in  the  work  of  its 
own  age  ; it  is  a question  how  far  purchase 
by  the  State  even  of  fine  old  pictures  is 
a benefit  to  art.  It  is  not  a question  that 
need  be  discussed ; for  though  a State  may 
have  amongst  its  employes  men  who  can 
recognise  a fine  work  of  art,  provided  it 
be  sufficiently  old,  a modern  State  will  be 
careful  to  thwart  and  stultify  their  danger- 
ously good  taste.  State-acquisition  of  fine 
ancient  art  might  or  might  not  be  a means 
to  good — I daresay  it  would  be  ; but  the 
purchase  of  third-rate  old  masters  and 
objets  cT art  can  benefit  no  one  except  the 
dealers.  As  I shall  hope  to  show,  some- 
thing might  be  said  for  supporting  and  en- 
riching galleries  and  museums,  if  only  the 
254 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 


public  attitude  towards,  and  the  official 
conception  of,  these  places  could  be  changed. 
As  for  contemporary  art,  official  patronage 
is  the  surest  method  of  encouraging  in  it 
all  that  is  most  stupid  and  pernicious.  Our 
public  monuments,  the  statues  and  buildings 
that  disgrace  our  streets,  our  postage-stamps, 
coins,  and  official  portraits  are  mere  bait  to 
the  worst  instincts  of  the  worst  art-students 
and  to  the  better  a formidable  temptation. 

Some  of  those  generous  prophets  who  sit 
at  home  dreaming  of  pure  communistic 
societies  have  been  good  enough  to  find 
a place  in  them  for  the  artist.  Demos  is 
to  keep  for  his  diversion  a kennel  of  mounte- 
banks. Artists  will  be  chosen  by  the  State 
and  supported  by  the  State.  The  people 
will  pay  the  piper  and  call  the  tune.  In 
the  choice  of  politicians  the  method  works 
well  enough,  but  to  art  it  would  be  fatal. 
The  creation  of  soft  artistic  jobs  is  the 
most  unlikely  method  of  encouraging  art. 
Already  hundreds  take  to  it,  not  because 
they  have  in  them  that  which  must  be  ex- 
pressed, but  because  art  seems  to  offer  a 
pleasant  and  genteel  career.  When  the 
income  is  assured  the  number  of  those  who 
fancy  art  as  a profession  will  not  diminish. 
On  the  contrary,  in  the  great  State  of  the 

255 


ART 


future  the  competition  will  be  appalling 
I can  imagine  the  squeezing  and  intriguing 
between  the  friends  of  applicants  and  their 
parliamentary  deputies,  between  the  deputies 
and  the  Minister  of  Fine  Arts ; and  I 
can  imagine  the  art  produced  to  fulfil  a 
popular  mandate  in  the  days  when  private 
jobbery  will  be  the  only  check  on  public 
taste.  Can  we  not  all  imagine  the  sort  of  man 
that  would  be  chosen  ? Have  we  no  experi- 
ence of  what  the  people  love  ? Comrades, 
dear  democratic  ladies  and  gentlemen,  pursue, 
by  all  means,  your  schemes  for  righting  the 
world,  dream  your  dreams,  conceive  Utopias, 
but  leave  the  artists  out.  For,  tell  me 
honestly,  does  any  one  of  you  believe  that 
during  the  last  three  hundred  years  a single 
good  artist  would  have  been  supported  by 
your  system  ? And  remember,  unless  it  had 
supported  him  it  would  not  have  allowed 
him  to  exist.  Remember,  too,  that  you 
will  have  to  select  or  reject  your  artists 
while  yet  they  are  students — you  will  not 
be  able  to  wait  until  a name  has  been  im- 
posed on  you  by  years  of  reputation  with 
a few  good  judges.  If  Degas  is  now  rever- 
enced as  a master  that  is  because  his  pic- 
tures fetch  long  prices,  and  his  pictures  fetch 
long  prices  because  a handful  of  people  who 
256 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 


would  soon  have  been  put  under  the  great 
civic  pump  have  been  for  years  proclaiming 
his  mastery.  And  during  those  long  years 
how  has  Degas  lived  ? On  the  bounty  of 
the  people  who  love  all  things  beautiful, 
or  on  the  intelligence  and  discrimination  of 
a few  rich  or  richish  patrons  ? In  the  great 
State  you  will  not  be  able  to  take  your 
masters  ready-made  with  years  of  reputation 
behind  them  ; you  will  have  to  pick  them 
yourselves,  and  pick  them  young. 

Here  you  are,  then,  at  the  door  of  your 
annual  exhibition  of  students’  work ; you 
are  come  to  choose  two  State  pensioners, 
and  pack  the  rest  off  to  clean  the  drains 
of  Melbourne.  They  will  be  chosen  by 
popular  vote — the  only  fair  way  of  induct- 
ing a public  entertainer  to  a snug  billet. 
But,  unknown  to  you,  I have  placed  amongst 
the  exhibits  two  drawings  by  Claude  and 
one  by  Ingres ; and  at  this  exhibition  there 
are  no  names  on  the  catalogue.  Do  you 
think  my  men  will  get  a single  vote  ? Pos- 
sibly ; but  dare  one  of  you  suggest  that 
in  competition  with  any  rubbishy  sensation- 
monger  either  of  them  will  stand  a chance? 
“Oh,  but,”  you  say,  “in  the  great  new 
State  everyone  will  be  well  educated.” 
“ Let  them,”  I reply,  “ be  as  well  educated 
257  R 


ART 


as  the  M.A.s  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge  who 
have  been  educated  from  six  to  six-and- 
twenty  : and  I suggest  that  to  do  even  that 
will  come  pretty  dear.  Well,  then,  submit 
your  anonymous  collection  of  pictures  to 
people  qualified  to  elect  members  of  parlia- 
ment for  our  two  ancient  universities,  and 
you  know  perfectly  well  that  you  will  get 
no  better  result.  So,  don’t  be  silly : even 
private  patronage  is  less  fatal  to  art  than 
public.  Whatever  else  you  may  get,  you 
will  never  get  an  artist  by  popular  election.” 
You  say  that  the  State  will  select  through 
two  or  three  highly  sensitive  officials.  In 
the  first  place  you  have  got  to  catch  your 
officials.  And  remember,  these,  too,  in  the 
eyes  of  their  fellow-workers,  will  be  men 
who  have  got  hold  of  a soft  thing.  The 
considerations  that  govern  the  selection  of 
State-paid  artists  will  control  the  election 
of  State-paid  experts.  By  what  sign  shall 
the  public  recognise  the  man  of  sensibility, 
always  supposing  that  it  is  a man  of  sensi- 
bility the  public  wants?  John  Jones,  the 
broker’s  man,  thinks  himself  quite  as  good 
a judge  of  art  as  Mr.  Fry,  and  apparently 
Mr.  Asquith  thinks  the  trustees  of  the 
National  Gallery  better  than  either.  Sup- 
pose you  have  by  some  miracle  laid  hands 
258 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 


on  a man  of  aesthetic  sensibility  and  made 
him  your  officer,  he  will  still  have  to  answer 
for  his  purchases  to  a popularly  elected 
parliament.  Things  are  bad  enough  at 
present : the  people  will  not  tolerate  a public 
monument  that  is  a work  of  art,  neither 
do  their  obedient  servants  wish  to  impose 
such  a thing  on  them ; but  when  no  one 
can  live  as  an  artist  without  becoming  a 
public  servant,  when  all  works  of  art  are 
public  monuments,  do  you  seriously  expect 
to  have  any  art  at  all  ? When  the  appoint- 
ment of  artists  becomes  a piece  of  party 
patronage  does  anyone  doubt  that  a score 
of  qualifications  will  stand  an  applicant  in 
better  stead  than  that  of  being  an  artist  ? 
Imagine  Mr.  Lloyd  George  nominating  Mr. 
Roger  Fry  Government  selector  of  State- 
paid  artists.  Imagine  — and  here  I am 
making  no  heavy  demand  on  your  powers — 
imagine  Mr.  Fry  appointing  some  obscure  and 
shocking  student  of  unconventional  talent. 
Imagine  Mr.  Lloyd  George  going  down  to 
Limehouse  to  defend  the  appointment  before 
thousands  of  voters,  most  of  whom  have 
a son,  a brother,  a cousin,  a friend,  or  a little 
dog  who,  they  feel  sure,  is  much  better 
equipped  for  the  job. 

If  the  great  communistic  society  is  bent 
259 


ART 


on  producing  art — and  the  society  that  does 
not  produce  live  art  is  damned — there  is 
one  thing,  and  one  only,  that  it  can  do. 
Guarantee  to  every  citizen,  whether  he 
works  or  whether  he  loafs,  a bare  minimum 
of  existence — say  sixpence  a day  and  a bed 
in  the  common  dosshouse.  Let  the  artist 
be  a beggar  living  on  public  charity.  Give 
to  the  industrious  practical  workers  the  sort 
of  things  they  like,  big  salaries,  short  hours, 
social  consideration,  expensive  pleasures. 
Let  the  artist  have  just  enough  to  eat,  and 
the  tools  of  his  trade : ask  nothing  of  him. 
Materially  make  the  life  of  the  artist 
sufficiently  miserable  to  be  unattractive,  and 
no  one  will  take  to  art  save  those  in  whom 
the  divine  daemon  is  absolute.  For  all  let 
there  be  a choice  between  a life  of  dignified, 
highly-paid,  and  not  over-exacting  employ- 
ment and  the  despicable  life  of  a vagrant. 
There  can  be  little  doubt  about  the  choice 
of  most,  and  none  about  that  of  a real 
artist.  Art  and  Religion  are  very  much 
alike,  and  in  the  East,  where  they  understand 
these  things,  there  has  always  been  a notion 
that  religion  should  be  an  amateur  affair. 
The  pungis  of  India  are  beggars.  Let 
artists  all  over  the  world  be  beggars  too. 
Art  and  Religion  are  not  professions : they 
260 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 


are  not  occupations  for  which  men  can  he 
paid.  The  artist  and  the  saint  do  what 
they  have  to  do,  not  to  make  a living,  but 
in  obedience  to  some  mysterious  necessity. 
They  do  not  produce  to  live — they  live  to 
produce.  There  is  no  place  for  them  in  a 
social  system  based  on  the  theory  that  what 
men  desire  is  prolonged  and  pleasant  exist- 
ence. You  cannot  fit  them  into  the 
machine,  you  must  make  them  extraneous 
to  it.  You  must  make  pariahs  of  them, 
since  they  are  not  a part  of  society  but  the 
salt  of  the  earth. 

In  saying  that  the  mass  of  mankind  will 
never  be  capable  of  making  delicate  aesthetic 
judgments,  I have  said  no  more  than  the 
obvious  truth.  A sure  sensibility  in  visual 
art  is  at  least  as  rare  as  a good  ear  for  music. 
No  one  imagines  that  all  are  equally  capable 
of  judging  music,  or  that  a perfect  ear  can 
be  acquired  by  study : only  fools  imagine 
that  the  power  of  nice  discrimination  in 
other  arts  is  not  a peculiar  gift.  Neverthe- 
less there  is  no  reason  why  the  vast  majority 
should  not  become  very  much  more  sensitive 
to  art  than  it  is;  the  ear  can  be  trained  to  a 
point.  But  for  the  better  appreciation,  as 
for  the  freer  creation,  of  art  more  liberty  is 
needed.  Ninety-nine  out  of  every  hundred 
261 


ART 


people  who  visit  picture  galleries  need  to  be 
delivered  from  that  “ museum  atmosphere  ” 
which  envelops  works  of  art  and  asphyxiates 
beholders.  They,  the  ninety-nine,  should 
be  encouraged  to  approach  works  of  art 
courageously  and  to  judge  them  on  their 
merits.  Often  they  are  more  sensitive  to 
form  and  colour  than  they  suppose.  I 
have  seen  people  show  a nice  taste  in 
cottons  and  calicoes,  and  things  not  re- 
cognised as  “ Art  ” by  the  custodians  of 
museums,  who  would  not  hesitate  to  assert 
of  any  picture  by  Andrea  del  Sarto  that  it 
must  be  more  beautiful  than  any  picture  by  a 
child  or  a savage.  In  dealing  with  objects 
that  are  not  expected  to  imitate  natural 
forms  or  to  resemble  standard  masterpieces 
they  give  free  rein  to  their  native  sensi- 
bility. It  is  only  in  the  presence  of  a 
catalogue  that  complete  inhibition  sets  in. 
Traditional  reverence  is  what  lies  heaviest 
on  spectators  and  creators,  and  museums 
are  too  apt  to  become  conventicles  of 
tradition. 

Society  can  do  something  for  itself  and 
for  art  by  blowing  out  of  the  museums 
and  galleries  the  dust  of  erudition  and  the 
stale  incense  of  hero-worship.  Let  us  try 
to  remember  that  art  is  not  something  to 
262 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 

be  come  at  by  dint  of  study ; let  us  try 
to  think  of  it  as  something  to  be  enjoyed 
as  one  enjoys  being  in  love.  The  first 
thing  to  be  done  is  to  free  the  aesthetic 
emotions  from  the  tyranny  of  erudition.  I 
was  sitting  once  behind  the  driver  of  an  old 
horse-omnibus  when  a string  of  sandwich- 
men  crossed  us  carrying  “ The  Empire  ” 
poster.  The  name  of  Genee  was  on  the 
bill.  “ Some  call  that  art,”  said  the  driver, 
turning  to  me,  “ but  we  know  better  ” 
(my  longish  hair,  I surmise,  discovered  a 
fellow  connoisseur)  : “ if  you  want  art  you 
must  go  for  it  to  the  museums.”  How 
this  pernicious  nonsense  is  to  be  knocked 
out  of  people’s  heads  I cannot  guess.  It 
has  been  knocked  in  so  solemnly  and  for 
so  long  by  the  schoolmasters  and  the 
newspapers,  by  cheap  text-books  and  pro- 
found historians,  by  district  visitors  and 
cabinet  ministers,  by  clergymen  and  secula- 
rists, by  labour  leaders,  teetotallers,  anti- 
gamblers, and  public  benefactors  of  every 
sort,  that  I am  sure  it  will  need  a brighter 
and  braver  word  than  mine  to  knock  it 
out  again.  But  out  it  has  to  be  knocked 
before  we  can  have  any  general  sensibility 
to  art ; for,  while  it  remains,  to  ninety- 
nine  out  of  every  hundred  a work  of  art 
263 


ART 

will  be  dead  the  moment  it  enters  a public 
gallery. 

The  museums  and  galleries  terrify  us. 
We  are  crushed  by  the  tacit  admonition 
frowned  from  every  corner  that  these  trea- 
sures are  displayed  for  study  and  improve- 
ment, by  no  means  to  provoke  emotion. 
Think  of  Italy — every  town  with  its  public 
collection ; think  of  the  religious  sightseers  ! 
How  are  we  to  persuade  these  middle-class 
masses,  so  patient  and  so  pathetic  in  their 
quest,  that  really  they  could  get  some 
pleasure  from  the  pictures  if  only  they  did 
not  know,  and  did  not  care  to  know,  who 
painted  them.  They  cannot  all  be  insensi- 
tive to  form  and  colour ; and  if  only  they 
were  not  in  a flutter  to  know,  or  not  to 
forget,  who  painted  the  pictures,  when 
they  were  painted,  and  what  they  repre- 
sent, they  might  find  in  them  the  key  that 
unlocks  a world  in  the  existence  of  which 
they  are,  at  present,  unable  to  believe. 
And  the  millions  who  stay  at  home,  how 
are  they  to  be  persuaded  that  the  thrill 
provoked  by  a locomotive  or  a gasometer 
is  the  real  thing  ? — when  will  they  under- 
stand that  the  iron  buildings  put  up  by 
Mr.  Humphrey  are  far  more  likely  to  be 
works  of  art  than  anything  they  will  see 
264 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 


at  the  summer  exhibition  of  the  Royal 
Academy?1  Can  we  persuade  the  travelling 
classes  that  an  ordinarily  sensitive  human 
being  has  a better  chance  of  appreciating 
an  Italian  primitive  than  an  expert  hagio- 
grapher  ? Will  they  understand  that,  as 
a rule,  the  last  to  feel  aesthetic  emotion  is 
the  historian  of  art  ? Can  we  induce  the 
multitude  to  seek  in  art,  not  edification, 
but  exaltation  ? Can  we  make  them  un- 
ashamed of  the  emotion  they  feel  for  the 
fine  lines  of  a warehouse  or  a railway  bridge? 
If  we  can  do  this  we  shall  have  freed 
works  of  art  from  the  museum  atmosphere ; 
and  this  is  just  what  we  have  got  to  do. 
We  must  make  people  understand  that 
forms  can  be  significant  without  resembling 
Gothic  cathedrals  or  Greek  temples,  and 
that  art  is  the  creation,  not  the  imitation, 
of  form.  Then,  but  not  till  then,  can  they 
go  with  impunity  to  seek  aesthetic  emotion 
in  museums  and  galleries. 

It  is  argued  with  plausibility  that  a sensi- 
tive people  would  have  no  use  for  museums. 
It  is  said  that  to  go  in  search  of  aesthetic 

1 An  example  of  this  was  the  temporary  police-court 
set  up  recently  in  Francis  Street,  just  off  the  Tottenham 
Court  Road.  I do  not  know  whether  it  yet  stands  ; if 
so,  it  is  one  of  the  few  tolerable  pieces  of  modern  archi- 
tecture in  London. 

265 


ART 


emotion  is  wrong,  that  art  should  be  a 
part  of  life — something  like  the  evening 
papers  or  the  shop  windows  that  people 
enjoy  as  they  go  about  their  business.  But, 
if  the  state  of  mind  of  one  who  enters  a 
gallery  in  search  of  aesthetic  emotion  is 
necessarily  unsatisfactory,  so  is  the  state  of 
one  who  sits  down  to  read  poetry.  The 
lover  of  poetry  shuts  the  door  of  his 
chamber  and  takes  down  a volume  of 
Milton  with  the  deliberate  intention  of 
getting  himself  out  of  one  world  and  into 
another.  The  poetry  of  Milton  is  not  a 
part  of  daily  life,  though  for  some  it  makes 
daily  life  supportable.  The  value  of  the 
greatest  art  consists  not  in  its  power  of 
becoming  a part  of  common  existence  but 
in  its  power  of  taking  us  out  of  it.  I 
think  it  was  William  Morris  who  said  that 
poetry  should  be  something  that  a man 
could  invent  and  sing  to  his  fellows  as  he 
worked  at  the  loom.  Too  much  of  what 
Morris  wrote  may  well  have  been  so  in- 
vented. But  to  create  and  to  appreciate 
the  greatest  art  the  most  absolute  abstrac- 
tion from  the  affairs  of  life  is  essential. 
And  as,  throughout  the  ages,  men  and 
women  have  gone  to  temples  and  churches 
in  search  of  an  ecstasy  incompatible  with 
266 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 


and  remote  from  the  preoccupations  and 
activities  of  laborious  humanity,  so  they 
may  go  to  the  temples  of  art  to  experience, 
a little  out  of  this  world,  emotions  that 
are  of  another.  It  is  not  as  sanctuaries 
from  life — sanctuaries  devoted  to  the  cult 
of  aesthetic  emotion — but  as  class-rooms, 
laboratories,  homes  of  research  and  ware- 
houses of  tradition,  that  museums  and 
galleries  become  noxious. 

Human  sensibility  must  be  freed  from 
the  dust  of  erudition  and  the  weight  of 
tradition ; it  must  also  be  freed  from  the 
oppression  of  culture.  For,  of  all  the 
enemies  of  art,  culture  is  perhaps  the 
most  dangerous,  because  the  least  obvious. 
By  “ culture  ” it  is,  of  course,  possible  to 
mean  something  altogether  blameless.  It 
may  mean  an  education  that  aims  at 
nothing  but  sharpening  sensibility  and 
strengthening  the  power  of  self-expression. 
But  culture  of  that  sort  is  not  for  sale : 
to  some  it  comes  from  solitary  contempla- 
tion, to  others  from  contact  with  life ; in 
either  case  it  comes  only  to  those  who  are 
capable  of  using  it.  Common  culture,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  bought  and  sold  in  open 
market.  Cultivated  society,  in  the  ordinary 
sense  of  the  word,  is  a congeries  of  persons 
267 


ART 


who  have  been  educated  to  appreciate  le 
beau  et  le  bien.  A cultivated  person  is 
one  on  whom  art  has  not  impressed  itself, 
but  on  whom  it  has  been  impressed — one 
who  has  not  been  overwhelmed  by  the 
significance  of  art,  but  who  knows  that 
the  nicest  people  have  a peculiar  regard 
for  it.  The  characteristic  of  this  Society  is 
that,  though  it  takes  an  interest  in  art,  it 
does  not  take  art  seriously.  Art  for  it  is 
not  a necessity,  but  an  amenity.  Art  is 
not  something  that  one  might  meet  and 
be  overwhelmed  by  between  the  pages  of 
Bradshaw , but  something  to  be  sought  and 
saluted  at  appropriate  times  in  appointed 
places.  Culture  feels  no  imperative  craving 
for  art  such  as  one  feels  for  tobacco ; rather 
it  thinks  of  art  as  something  to  be  taken 
in  polite  and  pleasant  doses,  as  one  likes 
to  take  the  society  of  one’s  less  interest- 
ing acquaintances.  Patronage  of  the  Arts 
is  to  the  cultivated  classes  what  re- 
ligious practice  is  to  the  lower-middle,  the 
homage  that  matter  pays  to  spirit,  or, 
amongst  the  better  sort,  that  intellect 
pays  to  emotion.  Neither  the  cultivated 
nor  the  pious  are  genuinely  sensitive  to 
the  tremendous  emotions  of  art  and 
religion ; but  both  know  what  they  are 
268 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 

expected  to  feel,  and  when  they  ought  to 
feel  it. 

Now  if  culture  did  nothing  worse  than 
create  a class  of  well-educated  ladies  and 
gentlemen  who  read  books,  attend  concerts, 
travel  in  Italy,  and  talk  a good  deal  about 
art  without  ever  guessing  what  manner  of 
thing  it  is,  culture  would  be  nothing  to 
make  a fuss  about.  Unfortunately,  culture 
is  an  active  disease  which  causes  positive 
ill  and  baulks  potential  good.  In  the  first 
place,  cultivated  people  always  wish  to  cul- 
tivate others.  Cultivated  parents  cultivate 
their  children ; thousands  of  wretched  little 
creatures  are  daily  being  taught  to  love  the 
beautiful.  If  they  happen  to  have  been 
born  insensitive  this  is  of  no  great  conse- 
quence, but  it  is  misery  to  think  of  those 
who  have  had  real  sensibilities  ruined  by 
conscientious  parents : it  is  so  hard  to 

feel  a genuine  personal  emotion  for  what 
one  has  been  brought  up  to  admire.  Yet 
if  children  are  to  grow  up  into  acceptable 
members  of  the  cultivated  class  they  must 
be  taught  to  hold  the  right  opinions — 
they  must  recognise  the  standards.  Stan- 
dards of  taste  are  the  essence  of  culture. 
That  is  why  the  cultured  have  ever  been 
defenders  of  the  antique.  There  grows 


ART 


up  in  the  art  of  the  past  a traditional 
classification  under  standard  masterpieces  by 
means  of  which  even  those  who  have  no 
native  sensibility  can  discriminate  between 
works  of  art.  That  is  just  what  culture 
wants ; so  it  insists  on  the  veneration  of 
standards  and  frowns  on  anything  that  can- 
not be  justified  by  reference  to  them.  That 
is  the  serious  charge  against  culture.  A 
person  familiar  with  the  masterpieces  of 
Europe,  but  insensitive  to  that  which  makes 
them  masterpieces,  will  be  utterly  non- 
plussed by  a novel  manifestation  of  the 
mysterious  “ that.”  It  is  well  that  old 
masters  should  be  respected  ; it  were  better 
that  vital  art  should  be  welcome.  Vital 
art  is  a necessity,  and  vital  art  is  stifled  by 
culture,  which  insists  that  artists  shall  re- 
spect the  standards,  or,  to  put  it  bluntly, 
shall  imitate  old  masters. 

The  cultured,  therefore,  who  expect  in 
every  picture  at  least  some  reference 
to  a familiar  masterpiece,  create,  uncon- 
sciously enough,  a thoroughly  unwhole- 
some atmosphere.  For  they  are  rich  and 
patronising  and  liberal.  They  are  the  very 
innocent  but  natural  enemies  of  originality, 
for  an  original  work  is  the  touchstone  that 
exposes  educated  taste  masquerading  as 
270 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 


sensibility.  Besides,  it  is  reasonable  that 
those  who  have  been  at  such  pains  to 
sympathise  with  artists  should  expect  artists 
to  think  and  feel  as  they  do.  Originality, 
however,  thinks  and  feels  for  itself ; com- 
monly the  original  artist  does  not  live  the 
refined,  intellectual  life  that  would  befit 
the  fancy-man  of  the  cultured  classes.  He 
is  not  picturesque ; perhaps  he  is  positively 
inartistic  ; he  is  neither  a gentleman  nor  a 
blackguard  ; culture  is  angry  and  incredu- 
lous. Here  is  one  who  spends  his  working 
hours  creating  something  that  seems  strange 
and  disquieting  and  ugly,  and  devotes  his 
leisure  to  simple  animalities;  surely  one  so 
utterly  unlike  ourselves  cannot  be  an  artist  ? 
So  culture  attacks  and  sometimes  ruins  him. 
If  he  survives,  culture  has  to  adopt  him. 
He  becomes  part  of  the  tradition,  a stan- 
dard, a stick  with  which  to  beat  the  next 
original  genius  who  dares  to  shove  an  un- 
sponsored nose  above  water. 

In  the  nineteenth  century  cultured  people 
were  amazed  to  find  that  such  cads  as  Keats 
and  Burns  were  also  great  poets.  They  had 
to  be  accepted,  and  their  caddishness  had  to 
be  explained  away.  The  shocking  intemper- 
ance of  Burns  was  deplored  in  a paragraph, 
and  passed  over — as  though  Burns  were  not 
271 


ART 


as  essentially  a drunkard  as  a poet ! The 
vulgarity  of  Keats’s  letters  to  Fanny  Brawne 
did  not  escape  the  nice  censure  of  Matthew 
Arnold  who  could  not  be  expected  to  see 
that  a man  incapable  of  writing  such  letters 
would  not  have  written  “The  Eve  of  St. 
Agnes.”  In  our  day  culture  having  failed 
to  suppress  Mr.  Augustus  John  welcomes 
him  with  undiscriminating  enthusiasm  some 
ten  years  behind  the  times.  Here  and  there, 
a man  of  power  may  force  the  door,  but 
culture  never  loves  originality  until  it  has 
lost  the  appearance  of  originality.  The 
original  genius  is  ill  to  live  with  until  he  is 
dead.  Culture  will  not  live  with  him ; it 
takes  as  lover  the  artificer  of  the  faux-bon. 
It  adores  the  man  who  is  clever  enough  to 
imitate,  not  any  particular  work  of  art,  but 
art  itself.  It  adores  the  man  who  gives  in 
an  unexpected  way  just  what  it  has  been 
taught  to  expect.  It  wants,  not  art,  but 
something  so  much  like  art  that  it  can  feel 
the  sort  of  emotions  it  would  be  nice  to  feel 
for  art.  To  be  frank,  cultivated  people  are 
no  fonder  of  art  than  the  Philistines ; but 
they  like  to  get  thrills,  and  they  like  to  see 
old  faces  under  new  bonnets.  They  admire 
Mr.  Lavery’s  seductive  banalities  and  the 
literary  and  erudite  novelettes  of  M.  Rostand. 
272 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 


They  go  silly  over  Reinhardt  and  Bakst. 
These  confectioners  seem  to  give  the  distinc- 
tion of  art  to  the  natural  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings of  cultivated  people.  Culture  is  far 
more  dangerous  than  Philistinism  because  it 
is  more  intelligent  and  more  pliant.  It  has 
a specious  air  of  being  on  the  side  of  the 
artist.  It  has  the  charm  of  its  acquired 
taste,  and  it  can  corrupt  because  it  can  speak 
with  an  authority  unknown  in  Philistia. 
Because  it  pretends  to  care  about  art,  artists 
are  not  indifferent  to  its  judgments.  Cul- 
ture imposes  on  people  who  would  snap  their 
fingers  at  vulgarity.  With  culture  itself, 
even  in  the  low  sense  in  which  I have  been 
using  the  word,  we  need  not  pick  a quarrel, 
but  we  must  try  to  free  the  artist  and  the 
public  too  from  the  influence  of  cultivated 
opinion.  The  liberation  will  not  be  complete 
until  those  who  have  already  learned  to 
despise  the  opinion  of  the  lower  middle* 
classes  learn  also  to  neglect  the  standards  and 
the  disapproval  of  people  who  are  forced  by 
their  emotional  limitations  to  regard  art  as 
an  elegant  amenity. 

If  you  would  have  fine  art  and  fine  appre- 
ciation of  art,  you  must  have  a fine  free  life 
for  your  artists  and  for  yourselves.  That  is 
another  thing  that  Society  can  do  for  art : 
273  s 


ART 


it  can  kill  the  middle-class  ideal.  Was  ever 
ideal  so  vulnerable  ? The  industrious  ap- 
prentice who  by  slow  pettifogging  hardness 
works  his  way  to  the  dignity  of  material 
prosperity,  Dick  Whittington,  what  a hero 
for  a high-spirited  nation ! What  dreams 
our  old  men  dream,  what  visions  float  into 
the  minds  of  our  seers  ! Eight  hours  of 
intelligent  production,  eight  hours  of  thought- 
ful recreation,  eight  hours  of  refreshing  sleep 
for  all ! What  a vision  to  dangle  before  the 
eyes  of  a hungry  people ! If  it  is  great  art 
and  fine  life  that  you  want,  you  must  renounce 
this  religion  of  safe  mediocrity.  Comfort  is 
the  enemy ; luxury  is  merely  the  bugbear  of 
the  bourgeoisie.  No  soul  was  ever  ruined  by 
extravagance  or  even  by  debauch ; it  is  the 
steady,  punctual  gnawing  of  comfort  that 
destroys.  That  is  the  triumph  of  matter  over 
mind  ; that  is  the  last  tyranny.  For  how 
are  they  better  than  slaves  who  must  stop 
their  work  because  it  is  time  for  luncheon, 
must  break  up  a conversation  to  dress  for 
dinner,  must  leave  on  the  doorstep  the  friend 
they  have  not  seen  for  years  so  as  not  to 
miss  the  customary  train  ? 

Society  can  do  something  for  art,  because 
it  can  increase  liberty,  and  in  a liberal  atmos- 
phere art  thrives.  Even  politicians  can  do 
274 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 


something.  They  can  repeal  censorious  laws 
and  abolish  restrictions  on  freedom  of  thought 
and  speech  and  conduct.  They  can  protect 
minorities.  They  can  defend  originality 
from  the  hatred  of  the  mediocre  mob.  They 
can  make  an  end  of  the  doctrine  that  the 
State  has  a right  to  crush  unpopular  opinions 
in  the  interests  of  public  order.  A mighty 
liberty  to  be  allowed  to  speak  acceptable 
words  to  the  rabble ! The  least  that  the 
State  can  do  is  to  protect  people  who  have 
something  to  say  that  may  cause  a riot. 
What  will  not  cause  a riot  is  probably  not 
worth  saying.  At  present,  to  agitate  for 
an  increase  of  liberty  is  the  best  that  any 
ordinary  person  can  do  for  the  advancement 
of  art. 


II 


ART  AND  SOCIETY 

What  might  Art  do  for  Society?  Leaven 
it ; perhaps  even  redeem  it : for  Society 
needs  redemption.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
nineteenth  century  life  seemed  to  be  losing 
its  savour.  The  world  had  grown  grey  and 
anaemic,  lacking  passion,  it  seemed.  Sedate- 
ness became  fashionable ; only  dull  people 
cared  to  be  thought  spiritual.  At  its  best 
the  late  nineteenth  century  reminds  one  of  a 
sentimental  farce,  at  its  worst  of  a heartless 
joke.  But,  as  we  have  seen,  before  the  turn, 
first  in  France,  then  throughout  Europe,  a 
new  emotional  movement  began  to  manifest 
itself.  This  movement  if  it  was  not  to  be 
lost  required  a channel  along  which  it  might 
flow  to  some  purpose.  In  the  Middle  Ages 
such  a channel  would  have  been  ready  to 
hand ; spiritual  ferment  used  to  express 
itself  through  the  Christian  Church,  gene- 
rally in  the  teeth  of  official  opposition.  A 
276 


ART  AND  SOCIETY 


modern  movement  of  any  depth  cannot  so  ex- 
press itself.  Whatever  the  reasons  may  be, 
the  fact  is  certain.  The  principal  reason,  I 
believe,  is  that  the  minds  of  modern  men  and 
women  can  find  no  satisfaction  in  dogmatic 
religion ; and  Christianity,  by  a deplorable 
mischance,  has  been  unwilling  to  relinquish 
dogmas  that  are  utterly  irrelevant  to  its 
essence.  It  is  the  entanglement  of  religion 
in  dogma  that  still  keeps  the  world  super- 
ficially irreligious.  Now,  though  no  religion 
can  escape  the  binding  weeds  of  dogma,  there 
is  one  that  throws  them  off  more  easily  and 
light-heartedly  than  any  other.  That  reli- 
gion is  art ; for  art  is  a religion.  It  is  an 
expression  of  and  a means  to  states  of  mind 
as  holy  as  any  that  men  are  capable  of 
experiencing ; and  it  is  towards  art  that 
modern  minds  turn,  not  only  for  the  most 
perfect  expression  of  transcendent  emotion, 
but  for  an  inspiration  by  which  to  live. 

From  the  beginning  art  has  existed  as 
a religion  concurrent  with  all  other  religions. 
Obviously  there  can  be  no  essential  antagon- 
ism between  it  and  them.  Genuine  art  and 
genuine  religion  are  different  manifestations 
of  one  spirit,  so  are  sham  art  and  sham 
religion.  For  thousands  of  years  men  have 
expressed  in  art  their  ultra-human  emotions, 
277 


ART 


and  have  found  in  it  that  food  by  which  the 
spirit  lives.  Art  is  the  most  universal  and 
the  most  permanent  of  all  forms  of  religious 
expression,  because  the  significance  of  formal 
combinations  can  be  appreciated  as  well  by 
one  race  and  one  age  as  by  another,  and 
because  that  significance  is  as  independent 
as  mathematical  truth  of  human  vicissitudes. 
On  the  whole,  no  other  vehicle  of  emotion 
and  no  other  means  to  ecstasy  has  served 
man  so  well.  In  art  any  flood  of  spiritual 
exaltation  finds  a channel  ready  to  nurse  and 
lead  it : and  when  art  fails  it  is  for  lack 
of  emotion,  not  for  lack  of  formal  adapta- 
bility. There  never  was  a religion  so 
adaptable  and  catholic  as  art.  And  now 
that  the  young  movement  begins  to  cast 
about  for  a home  in  which  to  preserve  itself 
and  live,  what  more  natural  than  that  it 
should  turn  to  the  one  religion  of  unlimited 
forms  and  frequent  revolutions  ? 

For  art  is  the  one  religion  that  is  always 
shaping  its  form  to  fit  the  spirit,  the  one 
religion  that  will  never  for  long  be  fettered 
in  dogmas.  It  is  a religion  without  a 
priesthood ; and  it  is  well  that  the  new 
spirit  should  not  be  committed  to  the  hands 
of  priests.  The  new  spirit  is  in  the  hands  of 
the  artists ; that  is  well.  Artists,  as  a rule, 
278 


ART  AND  SOCIETY 


are  the  last  to  organise  themselves  into  offi- 
cial castes,  and  such  castes,  when  organised, 
rarely  impose  on  the  choicer  spirits.  Re- 
bellious painters  are  a good  deal  commoner 
than  rebellious  clergymen.  On  compromise 
which  is  the  bane  of  ail  religion — since  men 
cannot  serve  two  masters — almost  all  the 
sects  of  Europe  live  and  grow  fat.  Artists 
have  been  more  willing  to  go  lean.  By 
compromise  the  priests  have  succeeded 
marvellously  in  keeping  their  vessel  intact. 
The  fine  contempt  for  the  vessel  manifested 
by  the  original  artists  of  each  new  move- 
ment is  almost  as  salutary  as  their  sublime 
belief  in  the  spirit.  To  us,  looking  at  the 
history  of  art,  the  periods  of  abjection  and 
compromise  may  appear  unconscionably 
long,  but  by  comparison  with  those  of 
other  religions  they  are  surprisingly  short. 
Sooner  or  later  a true  artist  arises,  and  often 
by  his  unaided  strength  succeeds  in  so  re- 
shaping the  vessel  that  it  shall  contain 
perfectly  the  spirit. 

Religion  which  is  an  affair  of  emotional 
conviction  should  have  nothing  to  do  with 
intellectual  beliefs.  We  have  an  emotional 
conviction  that  some  things  are  better  than 
others,  that  some  states  of  mind  are  good 
and  that  others  are  not ; we  have  a strong 
279 


ART 


emotional  conviction  that  a good  world  ought 
to  be  preferred  to  a bad ; but  there  is  no 
proving  these  things.  Few  things  of  import- 
ance can  be  proved  ; important  things  have  to 
be  felt  and  expressed.  That  is  why  people 
with  things  of  importance  to  say  tend  to 
write  poems  rather  than  moral  treatises.  I 
make  my  critics  a present  of  that  stick. 
The  original  sin  of  dogmatists  is  that  they 
are  not  content  to  feel  and  express  but  must 
needs  invent  an  intellectual  concept  to  stand 
target  for  their  emotion.  From  the  nature 
of  their  emotions  they  infer  an  object  the 
existence  of  which  they  find  themselves 
obliged  to  prove  by  an  elaborately  disin- 
genuous metaphysic.  The  consequence  is 
inevitable ; religion  comes  to  mean,  not  the 
feeling  of  an  emotion,  but  adherence  to  a 
creed.  Instead  of  being  a matter  of  emo- 
tional conviction  it  becomes  a matter  of 
intellectual  propositions.  And  here,  very 
properly,  the  sceptic  steps  in  and  riddles  the 
ad  hoc  metaphysic  of  the  dogmatist  with 
unanswerable  objections.  No  Cambridge 
Rationalist  can  presume  to  deny  that  I feel  a 
certain  emotion,  but  the  moment  I attempt 
to  prove  the  existence  of  its  object  I lay 
myself  open  to  a bad  four  hours. 

No  one,  however,  wishes  to  deny  the 
280 


ART  AND  SOCIETY 

existence  of  the  immediate  object  of  aesthetic 
emotion — combinations  of  lines  and  colours. 
For  my  suggestion  that  there  may  be  a re- 
mote object  I shall  probably  get  into  trouble. 
But  if  my  metaphysical  notions  are  de- 
molished in  a paragraph,  that  will  not  matter 
in  the  least.  No  metaphysical  notions  about 
art  matter.  All  that  matter  are  the  aesthetic 
emotion  and  its  immediate  object.  As  to 
the  existence  of  a remote  object  and  its 
possible  nature  there  have  been  innumer- 
able theories,  most,  if  not  all,  of  which  have 
been  discredited.  Though  a few  have  been 
defended  fiercely,  they  have  never  been 
allowed  to  squeeze  out  art  completely : 
dogma  has  never  succeeded  in  ousting  re- 
ligion. It  has  been  realised  always  to  some 
extent  that  the  significance  of  art  depends 
chiefly  on  the  emotion  it  provokes,  that  works 
are  more  important  than  theories.  Although 
attempts  have  been  made  to  impose  dogmas, 
to  define  the  remote  object  and  to  direct  the 
emotion,  a single  original  artist  has  generally 
been  strong  enough  to  wreck  the  spurious 
orthodoxy.  Dimly  it  has  always  been  per- 
ceived that  a picture  which  moves  aesthetically 
cannot  be  wrong ; and  that  the  theory  that 
condemns  it  as  heretical  condemns  itself.  Art 
remains  an  undogmatic  religion.  You  are 
281 


ART 

invited  to  feel  an  emotion,  not  to  acquiesce  in 
a theory. 

Art,  then,  may  satisfy  the  religious  need 
of  an  age  grown  too  acute  for  dogmatic 
religion,  but  to  do  so  art  must  enlarge  its 
sphere  of  influence.  There  must  be  more 
popular  art,  more  of  that  art  which  is  un- 
important to  the  universe  but  important  to 
the  individual : for  art  can  be  second-rate 
yet  genuine.  Also,  art  must  become  less 
exclusively  professional.  That  will  not  be 
achieved  by  bribing  the  best  artists  to  debase 
themselves,  but  by  enabling  everyone  to 
create  such  art  as  he  can.  It  is  probable 
that  most  are  capable  of  expressing  them- 
selves, to  some  extent,  in  form ; it  is  certain 
that  in  so  doing  they  can  find  an  extra- 
ordinary happiness.  Those  who  have  abso- 
lutely nothing  to  express  and  absolutely  no 
power  of  expression  are  God’s  failures  ; they 
should  be  kindly  treated  along  with  the  hope- 
lessly idiotic  and  the  hydrocephalous.  Of 
the  majority  it  is  certainly  true  that  they 
have  some  vague  but  profound  emotions, 
also  it  is  certain  that  only  in  formal  ex- 
pression can  they  realise  them.  To  caper 
and  shout  is  to  express  oneself,  yet  is  it 
comfortless ; but  introduce  the  idea  of 
formality,  and  in  dance  and  song  you  may 
282 


ART  AND  SOCIETY 


find  satisfying  delight.  Form  is  the  talis- 
man. By  form  the  vague,  uneasy,  and 
unearthly  emotions  are  transmuted  into 
something  definite,  logical,  and  above  the 
earth.  Making  useful  objects  is  dreary 
work,  but  making  them  according  to  the 
mysterious  laws  of  formal  expression  is  half 
way  to  happiness.  If  art  is  to  do  the  work 
of  religion,  it  must  somehow  be  brought 
within  reach  of  the  people  who  need  re- 
ligion, and  an  obvious  means  of  achiev- 
ing this  is  to  introduce  into  useful  work  the 
thrill  of  creation. 

But,  after  all,  useful  work  must  remain, 
for  the  most  part,  mechanical ; and  if  the 
useful  workers  want  to  express  themselves 
as  completely  as  possible,  they  must  do  so 
in  their  leisure.  There  are  two  kinds  of 
formal  expression  open  to  all — dancing  and 
singing.  Certainly  it  is  in  dance  and  song 
that  ordinary  people  come  nearest  to  the 
joy  of  creation.  In  no  age  can  there  be 
more  than  a few  first-rate  artists,  but  in  any 
there  might  be  millions  of  genuine  ones; 
and  once  it  is  understood  that  art  which  is 
unfit  for  public  exhibition  may  yet  be  created 
for  private  pleasure  no  one  will  feel  shame 
at  being  called  an  amateur.  We  shall  not 
have  to  pretend  that  all  our  friends  are 
283 


ART 


great  artists,  because  they  will  make  no  such 
pretence  themselves.  In  the  great  State 
they  will  not  be  of  the  company  of  divine 
beggars.  They  will  be  amateurs  who  con- 
sciously use  art  as  a means  to  emotional 
beatitude ; they  will  not  be  artists  who, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  use  everything 
as  a means  to  art.  Let  us  dance  and  sing, 
then,  for  dancing  and  singing  are  true  arts, 
useless  materially,  valuable  only  for  their 
aesthetic  significance.  Above  all,  let  us 
dance  and  devise  dances — dancing  is  a very 
pure  art,  a creation  of  abstract  form ; and 
if  we  are  to  find  in  art  emotional  satisfac- 
tion, it  is  essential  that  we  shall  become 
creators  of  form.  We  must  not  be  content 
to  contemplate  merely ; we  must  create  ; we 
must  be  active  in  our  dealings  with  art. 

It  is  here  that  I shall  fall  foul  of  certain 
excellent  men  and  women  who  are  attempt- 
ing to  “ bring  art  into  the  lives  of  the 
people  ” by  dragging  parties  of  school  chil- 
dren and  factory  girls  through  the  National 
Gallery  and  the  British  Museum.  Who  is 
not  familiar  with  those  little  flocks  of  victims 
clattering  and  shuffling  through  the  galleries, 
inspissating  the  gloom  of  the  museum  atmos- 
phere  ? What  is  being  done  to  their  native 
sensibilities  by  the  earnest  bear-leader  with 
284 


ART  AND  SOCIETY 

his  (or  her)  catalogue  of  dates  and  names 
and  appropriate  comments  ? What  have  all 
these  tags  of  mythology  and  history,  these 
pedagogic  raptures  and  peripatetic  ecstasies, 
to  do  with  genuine  emotion?  In  the  guise 
of  what  grisly  and  incomprehensible  charlatan 
is  art  being  presented  to  the  people  ? The 
only  possible  effect  of  personally  conducted 
visits  must  be  to  confirm  the  victims  in 
their  suspicion  that  art  is  something  infin- 
itely remote,  infinitely  venerable,  and  infinitely 
dreary.  They  come  away  with  a respectful 
but  permanent  horror  of  that  old  sphinx 
who  sits  in  Trafalgar  Square  propounding 
riddles  that  are  not  worth  answering, 
tended  by  the  cultured  and  nourished  by 
the  rich. 

First  learn  to  walk,  then  try  running. 
An  artisan  of  exceptional  sensibility  may  get 
something  from  the  masterpieces  of  the 
National  Gallery,  provided  there  is  no  culti- 
vated person  at  hand  to  tell  him  what  to 
feel,  or  to  prevent  him  feeling  anything  by 
telling  him  to  think.  An  artisan  of  ordinary 
sensibility  had  far  better  keep  away  until, 
by  trying  to  express  himself  in  form,  he 
has  gained  some  glimmer  of  a notion  of 
what  artists  are  driving  at.  Surely  there 
can  be  no  reason  why  almost  every  man 

285 


ART 


and  woman  should  not  be  a bit  of  an  artist 
since  almost  every  child  is.  In  most  chil- 
dren a sense  of  form  is  discernible.  What 
becomes  of  it  ? It  is  the  old  story  : the 
child  is  father  to  the  man ; and  if  you 
wish  to  preserve  for  the  man  the  gift  with 
which  he  was  born,  you  must  catch  him 
young,  or  rather  prevent  his  being  caught. 
Can  we  by  any  means  thwart  the  parents, 
the  teachers,  and  the  systems  of  education 
that  turn  children  into  modern  men  and 
women?  Can  we  save  the  artist  that  is 
in  almost  every  child  ? At  least  we  can 
offer  some  practical  advice.  Do  not  tamper 
with  that  direct  emotional  reaction  to  things 
which  is  the  genius  of  children.  Do  not 
destroy  their  sense  of  reality  by  teaching 
them  to  manipulate  labels.  Do  not  imagine 
that  adults  must  be  the  best  judges  of 
what  is  good  and  what  matters.  Don’t  be 
such  an  ass  as  to  suppose  that  what  excites 
uncle  is  more  exciting  than  what  excites 
Tommy.  Don’t  suppose  that  a ton  of  ex- 
perience is  worth  a flash  of  insight,  and 
don’t  forget  that  a knowledge  of  life  can 
help  no  one  to  an  understanding  of  art. 
Therefore  do  not  educate  children  to  be 
anything  or  to  feel  anything ; put  them 
in  the  way  of  finding  out  what  they  want 
286 


ART  AND  SOCIETY 

and  what  they  are.  So  much  in  general. 
In  particular  I would  say,  do  not  take 
children  to  galleries  and  museums ; still 
less,  of  course,  send  them  to  art  schools  to 
be  taught  high-toned  commercialism.  Do 
not  encourage  them  to  join  guilds  of  art 
and  crafts,  where,  though  they  may  learn 
a craft,  they  will  lose  their  sense  of  art. 
In  those  respectable  institutions  reigns  a 
high  conception  of  sound  work  and  honest 
workmanship.  Alas ! why  cannot  people 
who  set  themselves  to  be  sound  and 
honest  remember  that  there  are  other 
things  in  life  ? The  honest  craftsmen  of 
the  guilds  have  an  ideal  which  is  praise- 
worthy and  practical,  which  is  mediocre 
and  unmagnanimous,  which  is  moral  and 
not  artistic.  Craftsmen  are  men  of  principle, 
and,  like  all  men  of  principle,  they  abandon 
the  habit  of  thinking  and  feeling  because 
they  find  it  easier  to  ask  and  answer  the 
question,  “Does  this  square  with  my  prin- 
ciples ? ” — than  to  ask  and  answer  the  ques- 
tion, “Do  I feel  this  to  be  good  or  true 
or  beautiful  ? ” Therefore,  I say,  do  not 
encourage  a child  to  take  up  with  the  Arts 
and  Crafts.  Art  is  not  based  on  craft,  but 
on  sensibility ; it  does  not  live  by  honest 
labour,  but  by  inspiration.  It  is  not  to  be 
287 


ART 


taught  in  workshops  and  schoolrooms  by 
craftsmen  and  pedants,  though  it  may  be 
ripened  in  studios  by  masters  who  are 
artists.  A good  craftsman  the  boy  must 
become  if  he  is  to  be  a good  artist ; but 
let  him  teach  himself  the  tricks  of  his  trade 
by  experiment,  not  in  craft,  but  in  art. 

To  those  who  busy  themselves  about 
bringing  art  into  the  lives  of  the  people, 
I would  also  say — Do  not  dabble  in  revivals. 
The  very  word  smacks  of  the  vault.  Revivals 
look  back  ; art  is  concerned  with  the  present. 
People  will  not  be  tempted  to  create  by 
being  taught  to  imitate.  Except  that  they 
are  charming,  revivals  of  morris-dancing  and 
folk-singing  are  little  better  than  Arts  and 
Crafts  in  the  open.  The  dust  of  the  museum 
is  upon  them.  They  may  turn  boys  and  girls 
into  nimble  virtuosi;  they  will  not  make  them 
artists.  Because  no  two  ages  express  their 
sense  of  form  in  precisely  the  same  way  all 
attempts  to  recreate  the  forms  of  another  age 
must  sacrifice  emotional  expression  to  imita- 
tive address.  Old-world  merry-making  can 
no  more  satisfy  sharp  spiritual  hunger  than 
careful  craftsmanship  or  half  hours  with  our 
.“Art  Treasures.”  Passionate  creation  and 
ecstatic  contemplation,  these  alone  will  satisfy 
men  in  search  of  a religion. 

288 


ART  AND  SOCIETY 


I believe  it  is  possible,  though  extremely 
difficult,  to  give  people  both — if  they  really 
want  them.  Only,  I am  sure  that,  for  most, 
creation  must  precede  contemplation.  In 
Monsieur  Poiret’s  Ecole  Marline  1 scores  of 
young  French  girls,  picked  up  from  the 
gutter  or  thereabouts,  are  at  this  moment 
creating  forms  of  surprising  charm  and  origi- 
nality. That  they  find  delight  in  their  work 
is  not  disputed.  They  copy  no  master,  they 
follow  no  tradition  ; what  they  owe  to  the 
past — and  it  is  much — they  have  borrowed 
quite  unconsciously  with  the  quality  of  their 
bodies  and  their  minds  from  the  history  and 
traditional  culture  of  their  race.  Their  art 
differs  from  savage  art  as  a French  mi  dinette 
differs  from  a squaw,  but  it  is  as  original 
and  vital  as  the  work  of  savages.  It  is  not 
great  art,  it  is  not  profoundly  significant,  it 
is  often  frankly  third-rate,  but  it  is  genuine  ; 
and  therefore  I rate  the  artisans  of  the  Ecole 
Martine  with  the  best  contemporary  painters, 
not  as  artists,  but  as  manifestations  of  the 
movement. 

I am  no  devout  lover  of  rag-time  and 

1 We  may  hope  much  from  the  Omega  Workshops  in 
London  ; but  at  present  they  employ  only  trained  artists. 
We  have  yet  to  see  what  effect  they  will  have  on  the 
untrained. 

289  T 


ART 


turkey-trotting,  but  they  too  are  manifesta- 
tions. In  those  queer  exasperated  rhythms 
I find  greater  promise  of  a popular  art  than 
in  revivals  of  folk-song  and  morris-dancing. 
At  least  they  bear  some  relationship  to  the 
emotions  of  those  who  sing  and  dance  them. 
In  so  far  as  they  are  significant  they  are 
good,  but  they  are  of  no  great  significance. 
It  is  not  in  the  souls  of  bunny-huggers  that 
the  new  ferment  is  potent ; they  will  not 
dance  and  sing  the  world  out  of  its  lethargy  ; 
not  to  them  will  the  future  owe  that  debt 
which  I trust  it  will  be  quick  to  forget. 
There  is  nothing  very  wonderful  or  very 
novel  about  rag-time  or  tango,  but  to  over- 
look any  live  form  of  expression  is  a mistake, 
and  to  attack  it  is  sheer  silliness.  Tango 
and  rag-time  are  kites  sped  by  the  breeze 
that  fills  the  great  sails  of  visual  art.  Not 
every  man  can  keep  a cutter,  but  every  boy 
can  buy  a kite.  In  an  age  that  is  seeking 
new  forms  in  which  to  express  that  emotion 
which  can  be  expressed  satisfactorily  in  form 
alone,  the  wise  will  look  hopefully  at  any 
kind  of  dancing  or  singing  that  is  at  once 
unconventional  and  popular. 

So,  let  the  people  try  to  create  form  for 
themselves.  Probably  they  will  make  a 
mess  of  it ; that  will  not  matter.  The  im- 
290 


ART  AND  SOCIETY 


portant  thing  is  to  have  live  art  and  live 
sensibility ; the  copious  production  of  bad 
art  is  a waste  of  time,  but,  so  long  as  it  is 
not  encouraged  to  the  detriment  of  good, 
nothing  worse.  Let  everyone  make  him- 
self an  amateur,  and  lose  the  notion  that 
art  is  something  that  lives  in  the  museums 
understood  by  the  learned  alone.  By  prac- 
tising an  art  it  is  possible  that  people  will 
acquire  sensibility  ; if  they  acquire  the  sensi- 
bility to  appreciate,  even  to  some  extent,  the 
greatest  art  they  will  have  found  the  new 
religion  for  which  they  have  been  looking. 
I do  not  dream  of  anything  that  would 
burden  or  lighten  the  catalogues  of  ecclesi- 
astical historians.  But  if  it  be  true  that 
modern  men  can  find  little  comfort  in  dog- 
matic religion,  and  if  it  be  true  that  this 
age,  in  reaction  from  the  materialism  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  is  becoming  conscious  of 
its  spiritual  need  and  longs  for  satisfaction, 
then  it  seems  reasonable  to  advise  them  to 
seek  in  art  what  they  want  and  art  can  give. 
Art  will  not  fail  them  ; but  it  may  be  that 
the  majority  must  always  lack  the  sensi- 
bility that  can  take  from  art  what  art 
offers. 

That  will  be  very  sad  for  the  majority; 
it  will  not  matter  much  to  art.  For  those 
291 


ART 


who  can  feel  the  significance  of  form,  art  can 
never  be  less  than  a religion.  In  art  these 
find  what  other  religious  natures  found  and 
still  find,  I doubt  not,  in  impassioned  prayer 
and  worship.  They  find  that  emotional  con- 
fidence, that  assurance  of  absolute  good, 
which  makes  of  life  a momentous  and  har- 
monious whole.  Because  the  aesthetic  emo- 
tions are  outside  and  above  life,  it  is  possible 
to  take  refuge  in  them  from  life.  He  who 
has  once  lost  himself  in  an  “ O Altitudo  ” 
will  not  be  tempted  to  over-estimate  the 
fussy  excitements  of  action.  He  who  can 
withdraw  into  the  world  of  ecstasy  will  know 
what  to  think  of  circumstance.  He  who 
goes  daily  into  the  world  of  aesthetic  emo- 
tion returns  to  the  world  of  human  affairs 
equipped  to  face  it  courageously  and  even  a 
little  contemptuously.  And  if  by  compara- 
son  with  aesthetic  rapture  he  finds  most 
human  passion  trivial,  he  need  not  on  that 
account  become  unsympathetic  or  inhuman. 
For  practical  purposes,  even,  it  is  possible 
that  the  religion  of  art  will  serve  a man 
better  than  the  religion  of  humanity.  He 
may  learn  in  another  world  to  doubt 
the  extreme  importance  of  this,  but  if 
that  doubt  dims  his  enthusiasm  for  some 
things  that  are  truly  excellent  it  will 
292 


ART  AND  SOCIETY 


dispel  his  illusions  about  many  that  are 
not.  What  he  loses  in  philanthropy  he 
may  gain  in  magnanimity ; and  because 
his  religion  does  not  begin  with  an  in- 
junction to  love  all  men,  it  will  not  end, 
perhaps,  in  persuading  him  to  hate  most 
of  them. 


THE  END 


Printed  in  England  at  THE  BALLANTYNE  PRESS 
SPOTTISWOODE,  BALLANTYNE  ft  CO.  LTD. 
Colchester.  London  & Eton 


GETTY  RESEARCH  INSTITUTE  w 

I II  I I 


3 3125  01014  1576 


